As a self-proclaimed artist, I often have this urge to see the sadness in everything. I could even see the sadness in a bouquet of flowers. I could describe the decaying perfume of a first kiss. I could feel the overwhelming weight of death, while I watch two lovebirds dance. Of course, as an artist, I could also easily the beauty in morbid things. The morning dew that falls on a corpse or the blankness of a tree, hidden by the veil of the wind. The child-like naivete in an old woman’s tears, as she sees a coffin pass by, on a cold winter morning. The pen has risen. Boredom is dead. Long live the arts!