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This is lovely. Each of us is a universe of experience unto ourselves, and despite our best efforts, we can never adequately convey our experiences to others. We take it with us when we go. In our imperfect attempts to capture and convey a sensation, a thought, an image, a feeling, we make imperfect art. If we are lucky, our art finds an audience, and the audience has their own unique response, which they may be inspired to imperfectly convey--like the "little phrase" inspires Proust, which inspires us, his readers, and so on, ad infinitum. It isn't immortality, but it is a kind of pro-creation, a meeting of two sources which produces a third source, just as children carry on a part of ourselves without replicating us.

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