We paint galaxies and golf courses, write sonnets and villanelles, act roles of a tyrant, a slave and a priest– willfully, to rediscover the very things we recreate. We create to make space for the present and make sense of the past. We create so that the future can analyze and exact wisdom, can criticize and marvel at mediocrity. Because from the vantage point of Today, nothing seems brilliant. In fifty or hundred or a thousand years, our very existence may seem like a testimony to excellence, to persistence and to infinite domination. So transient, this art. But then, what isn’t?