It's weird art. Initially untouched by your hands. Your soul. The artist manipulates the canvas, the stone block, the colourful ball of yarn, the stick of wood. Transformation with nails, with teeth, with courage, love, hate, desire, sweat, frustration, and perseverance. And when it is complete it seems indestructable as the beauty has been captured by the mind's eye so that you can trace every contour into the sky with swirls and loops of the index finger that spiral into your piece. Perfect vision. Then the artist revisits and revisits until creation can no longer take place, but rather erode what is already there.

Familiarity becomes destruction.

Left with the canvas, the stone, the faded ball of yarn, all less substantial but still somewhat functional.

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Destruction in hopes of birth, rebirth, but please break the fucking cycle.