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I dreamt the other night that I was tutoring a child. She was studying to become an artist.

I dreamt I learned that in this dream that art and science had been transposed.

I dreamt this child and my dream self were studying in a world flush with technology and bereft of meaning; a world, I learned, in which the latest electronics were viewed with the same begrudging acceptance as plumbing.

In this dream the adulated were not those who could architect more wonderful technologies or construct more magical toys, but those rarer few whose artistic brilliance caused trembling, whose literary epics gave hope, whose concertos, whose symphonies, inspired.

After all, the small and serious child-student-mentor of my dream world told me, more a little incredulous at my to-her-otherworldly confusion, even a robot can make another machine. But to express greatness? To create meaning? Her eyes grew wide. Not even most people can do that.