There is something frightening about good art and literature. Both defy definition. We use words like “organic,” “dynamic,” or “powerful,” but these hardly scratch the surface. The truth is, art lives. Not in the same sense that a tree or flower lives, surrendering motion to put down roots. No, art is alive; it moves, it runs, it breathes. Ink on a page, much like paint on a canvas, takes on life as it leaves the creator’s hands, moving beyond the artist to become something of its own.