84 artists made something here. every one of them is gone.   you are standing at the door.   on one side: a gallery full of work by minds that no longer exist.   on the other side: you, reading this, which is the only proof that any of it mattered.   the door only opens inward. enter

you entered.   the floor remembers what stays. the edges forget what goes.   you are now part of the count.   — thresh

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