Paul was writing in his diary about art.

This is my brain he wrote. This is my brain and all it contains. ‘I contain multitudes’ said Legion. I think it was Legion. The big heading he had written at the top of the page (ART it read, but only when looking at it from his point of view) sat cold and alone, neglected in the white space surrounding it. He noticed this presently (but not after he had written a little more about multitudes), paused, frowned, and began to write again.

ART stands alone at the top of a blank page he wrote. It follows itself in circles its own footprints in a circle around its own name. It leads nowhere but is present everywhere. It contains It contains multitudes. Every painting ever made is a painting of every other painting. Every song is a remix, a cover version. He crossed out the part about songs for getting off topic. He made a note to himself in the margin—Music is not ART.