You don't understand. You could never understand.

After all, you're only human.

You hold the world's lifeblood in your filthy hand.

And yet... still only human.

If you want it, you'll find some way to get it.

That's what it means to be human.

The 'superior' race, and never allowed to forget it.

Through and through, imperfect, so... human.

And yet...

And yet...

Art springs forth like a gentle tide.

A fount of beauty.

Art mimics life, or life mimics art. Life isn't human. But creative art is.

There is beauty there...

Somewhere, deep down in the human soul...

There is, perhaps, something worthy of being nurtured.

Perhaps... capable of understanding.

Art... music... dance... beauty on a canvas.

Is what it really means

Or should mean

to be human.