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Summary
to him, freedom was a sweetness illustrated in brush strokes— the intricate glide of his brush against a canvas, the gliding of his cursor against a backdrop of white pixels.
to me, freedom was the simple intimacy of touch— the feeling of the grass beneath my back, the press of my fingertips against the blades of each and every one.
it got me wondering, what was art to me? and, most importantly, what was touch to an algorithm?
who could’ve known the answer was so simple.
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Bookmarked by fireblaster1971
25 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
goodbye pressure hello p.ai.nter wireplay

