There is no formula to Art, Rémi says.

The actions simply flow from the Creator's fingers, he says, the line segments meld into each other to produce innovation, to embrace sublimation, but, then, upon their newfound realization, upon acquisition of grand animation, it is obvious, even to the silly little line segments: there is nothing, nothing new, only recycled, only reused, the rehashed and replaced, line segments slouching over each other in an attempt to fake it, to make it mean something, anything; but to try to create is to assume that we are not merely manipulating the already-there, and no, no, there is nothing but that.

At this, I violently nod my head.

All we are left with is silly imagery, he says, metaphors which have no basis in reality, allegories presenting no useful morals, and so, the Creator abandons it, leaves behind all the line segments that held such promise but moments ago.

It is all we can do, anymore.