We shape the world and the world shapes us.
I shudder in fear at this inversion of meaning,
of culture, when we no longer serve anything
outside of ourselves, but use all that we touch
to serve ourselves instead. The Muse looks down
on this abuse of talent, where the next great
performance becomes merely the next opportunity
for self-promotion. That is why the sound of even
the greatest violin cracks before getting off the
stage, playing merely to ourselves, alone, in halls
surrounded by mirrors, always without echo,
without meaning. So we mine the great aquifers
of our collective cultural past, that is:—until
the sparkling streams of youth go dry.