has anyone figured out how to turn off the thing where you love your pet so much it slides inexorably into grief-borrowing

“For me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on the shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ When I understand that the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”

Contemporary art haters will be like "i don't get it" and then not read the title or artist statement or the medium or the year or

while I am talking to you about something gay and stupid a mosquito lands on my arm and sucks all my blood out in an instant, swelling to the size of a person as my remains flutter cartoonishly down to the ground, and it continues the conversation where I left off in a high pitched approximation of my voice