Our eyes, you know.
They see, they watch, they constantly admire.
But they aren’t perfect.
They can be fooled quite easily.
For instance, this very writing.
It is not the words and phrases you conceptualize as you read.
It is not the spoken beats of your internal narrator, if that is the curse you bear.
It is instead a meager arrangement of pixels, microscopic lights in monochromatic red, green, and blue.
And yet this grid, so impossibly small, fools you into seeing smoothness, fools you into curvature which isn’t there, which couldn’t possibly be there.
Our eyes allow us to process so very much of the world, so very much of art.
But they are constantly lying to you to let the façade hold.