Collectables

Our world has become a museum of quibbles. Exquisite works of discontent that can be procured at one's earliest convenience overwhelms computer servers and produces tears in carry bags. Why should any be deprived of curated heaviness? There are no fixed prices, so the indigent are without excuse. An endless catalogue of grievances are available in every glorious human tongue. It is a pentecost of ungratefulness. One sour face is understood by all nations. We are beatniks of exasperation. Gnash your teeth and bite your lips. This is applause. You must exceed the tumult of neatly arranged gripes if you wish to participate in the scowling arts. Laminate your foible and submit it as a trading card of woe. Please do not think that I am free of implication. There is paint on my hands as well. Too many galleries and exhibitions temp me away from peace. I want to yell and shake my fist too. I want to settle a score so thoroughly that I earn a prestigious nomination. Do not seeth after his combativeness, seeth after mine! There is a stunning peice which is roped off for its unrivaled acclaim. It tours some of our finest institutions for the most cultivated eyes to glimpse. The artist that birthed it is so before his time that none dare speak his name. The prescience of this masterpiece has cowed all into silence. The best of us can not find a complaint. There is a certain amount of shame that fills me as I attempt to do it justice with a mere explanation. It is a headstone that reads, "About Time."