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The cover art depicts a cluttered artist's loft, its walls bearing the marks of time. A vibrant red table anchors the space, surrounded by easels, scattered art supplies, and metallic implements resting on the floor and stools. Dominating the background, an abstract canvas is suspended against the wall.

♫ Altering the Integral Triangle ♫

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I enter the corridor. And although I’ve walked the path to the studio hundreds, perhaps thousands of times, today is different. I gaze at the cubist paintings on the walls, the curious figures and machine-beings in the niches—favorites, unsellable pieces, small works of art I once found inspiring and perhaps life-defining. Now, suddenly, they confront me with the truth: there will not be enough time. I have taken on too much. I shouldn’t fool myself into believing I can ever complete everything in my notebooks waiting to be realized. I will leave behind unfinished paintings, sculptures that exist only as sketches, collages that have barely progressed beyond the idea stage—a chaotic, fragmented assemblage, incomprehensible in its entirety: enigmatic and, in all likelihood, thoroughly misunderstood.

Dizziness sweeps over me, and I have to lean against the wall. I resolve to produce more, sleep less, and stop letting myself be distracted, focusing instead on the essentials. Perhaps I can scale back my simple, frugal life even further to avoid constantly working for money, allowing me to devote myself to art with even more focus, more intensity, and more exclusivity?

Yet I cannot deceive myself. No matter what I do, it won’t change the fundamental truth: life is simply too short—and art far too long.