WHEN I WAS SIX, MY MOTHER SAID:  JOHNNY,
YOU CAN BE ANYTHING YOU SET YOUR MIND TO BE. I WANTED TO BE A GIRAFFE.
BUT NOW I JUST MAKE PRETTY THINGS. (AND I HAVE A FAT NECK)

"Does that mean I'm bad person if you don't like my work?"  Well, I don't think so.  (But I wouldn't let you marry my daughter.)

Remember that old story about the novice monk who sought the heart of rose's beauty, and pulled away petals by petal, unitil there was nothing but a broken stem?
Can we see the world just as it is without tearing the whole thing apart?

Does the world have enough art? The walls need more windows.