her house smoldering [o]

art is a strange thing. what is art? a man paints by slapping a solution of pigments upon stretched cloth. sometimes, it's even trash that is rearranged to make a mockery of the gods. sophia pauses to appraise a particular sculpture in the middle of the room. quite plainly, it was a stack of cinderblocks stacked precariously to form an archway. bright pieces of plastic junk adorned the edges, giving a rather jarring texture to the concrete.

it's a fitting grave for a woman who had incited hera's wrath.

it's all so artificial, all so familiar to sophia. it's what the orphanage children liked to bring home all those years ago. junk that the adults would force them to discard soon after. it serves no practical purpose. why is it here? why do people pay to see such an unnatural wonder?

were they unwittingly committing iconoclasm? if she tore through this stone, would she be defacing something that was more than junkyard scraps?

the docent is more than happy to explain. "it's artificial, but art is the most human thing that we create"

human. sophia reaches out for the stone before the docent jumps a little and squeaks for her to keep her distance. she pulls her hand back and apologizes promptly.