Isn't there something so morbid about beauty? We love beauty while it lives, aware that it must die. We hold this death at the back of our mind: admire the short-lived maintenance of our subject. And yet what we consider "beautiful" contains the eternal; does not a painting, an icon, a building, a landmark of geography remain indefinitely, and be admired as such? Still the morbidity remains. For none of these are truly eternal, despite their immortality. Paint, memory, foundation, and earth could not be considered beautiful if they did not...