The dove, painted by Picasso, catches sight of space between sky and ground, where men live in a state of perpetual fear. To tell the truth, the eyes escaped craquelure. The 'Dove of peace' can not perceive own self so do not look back briefly, just only can proceed glance of nuit. what makes our scared? The first human, Adam, who ate the fruit of good and evil, felt fear and fell in the moment he became aware of a being above himself. In fact, this fall had already occurred, or rather, from the moment of birth, or indeed from the moment of the world's creation. Despite this moment being when the world was at its most beautiful, it was also its most unfortunate time. The fallen one, the one who plummeted, the one with a broken leg, sought shelter from the rain and to escape from their shame, or rather, the fear wrapped within this shame, by moving deeper into the darkness, into crevices, into the womb, or indeed, into the female genitalia, burying their head further inside. And so, just like that, falling, "il" became "ils". The unfamiliar terror of that time, the fear of being watched by an unknown entity, the fear of the self that has disappeared — in fact, the fear of the self that has emerged — , and the fear of hope itself, which leaves room for the possibility of the most impossible form of resistance, prevented relinquishing humans from the grip of the cave. In an era when humanity lived in darkness, was aroused in sin, and gave birth to children amidst shame, Picasso do not captured the dove of that age. Instead, Picasso depicted the dove, the beast, the true animal form of a child's era, living in God's world with a naked body, not as a watcher of the sky but in a state where eternity was unfelt, existence ungrasped, language unknown, and the distinction between sacred and vulgar unacknowledged. Thus, Picasso do not touch behind one thing that exists in all humanity: the possibility, the potential, the great infinity. "il" who desire to paint like a child, to return to childhood, to the past, to time, for those who wished to defy their own fate. Continuously killing the child within himself, striving to depict a child's drawing again, then killing again, in an eternal cycle, thus living an eternity unaware of eternity. No, lives, die simultaneously. "il" always lives in the present. Nouns, verbs, and superfluous grammatical structures are unnecessary for him. "il" always speaks in adjectives. Beautiful, good, vibrant. The etymology of "analyze" is to untie what is bound. Just as Odysseus untied his ropes, Picasso unraveled his paintings, liberated them, and showed others the way of escape. His escape may be all the more valuable because it cannot be achieved. Odysseus can never truly dive at sea forever. The Sirens can never sing eternally. Picasso can never become a child again. The divine can never truly become like that of an animal. "Ils" can never become "il" forever. Just before dying — in fact, death is not the end. We often mistake it as such. We don't miss a friend we haven't seen for three years, yet we cry at their death. What is the difference between never seeing again and not seeing for a year, a month, a day, an hour, a second, or not hearing from them? There is no eternal end. Eternity is infinite. Due to the infinity of eternity, eternity becomes "this very moment." What should we do "in this very moment"? I don't know. It darkens. I become ashamed. I will hide because I lack the audacity of Prometheus. One wearing a lion's mask where their face was cut may stand before this secret. Now is the time to hide our faces in the shell of a red-eared turtle, for a snail to retreat into its sweet home, as the glans retreats into the foreskin — unavoidable, at the moment of "il" death, when the echo from behind the wall stirs, and "il" expression shakes me, then we will finally understand the goal Picasso wanted, wished for but perhaps never achieved, or maybe he did. In that sense, Picasso is a truly neutral being. Beneath the torn canvas, he ejaculates, tearing it further with the club he holds, childlike, for no reason at all. Yet, while he imbues the line with narrative and sutures it, the narrative created by the tear is torn again, forming a single torn unit like an infinite mosaic. The proof lies precisely in the "minimal line" he chose as his method to express existence. His canvas is a continuum of beings split into countless numbers, an assemblage of fragments. Observe the technique he used to depict "il" over "ils"! Thus, he saw the passion of the bull, the Dionysus in the dancers, war, the chicken, the horse. Someone with a different perspective, not with the eyes of a celestial watcher, nor someone who fears or defiantly ignores the celestial watcher, but with a unique viewpoint. Such a person is what we need now. His lines further shatter the cracks of torn beings into pieces like porridge, and upon this, he overlays the true lines to express. His lines can indeed be described as a truly impossible death.
