This boils down to the value of human exchange, which is, I suspect, near the heart of art in general.
I learned that although death was final, we weren’t allowed to mourn our losses.
Sometimes I write other things, hiding them from my then-husband.
As a sixth grader, I was too excited about qualifying for my school’s competitive math team to realize I was committing social suicide.
What distinguishes art viewed online from the stuff hanging on walls?
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