"I walked through the poor’s quarters, and my eye was not harmed. All functional, and simple, and crude, made on the whims of fate and delivered by immediate need.
I walked through the merchant’s quarters, and my eye was bored. Pretensions where nothing backed them, striving for appearance without substance, evidence of changing wealth, too much only began, too much never finished.
I walked through the place where the powerful lived, and my eye was tired. Too much of attempted beauty turned hideous, and a lack of taste was made worse by willing lackeys.
But then I’ve seen the treasure of the city. A cathedral, that was part of the sky, columns, and arches to carry the weight of the world, shapes to let your mind fly along, and ornaments to stop by. A place to ponder, to be pleased to be alive, to accept suffering, and to realize your mistakes. This is a place I could learn from."
A certain culture has a curious pass-time- muscle art.
Muscle artists (who are called by a special name) work hard to sculpt their bodies, trying to become as muscular and buff as possible. The best among muscle artists look almost grotesque in their amazing muscularity, Atlas-like giants with shiny, oiled iron arms and legs.