Art is not for us mere mortals to question, for it is timeless and we are. The untimely demise of our own souls cannot even attempt to grasp the beauty and timelessness of art. These encased tiny worlds, are nothing more than our encased tiny lives, but yet at the same time, they are a lot more than that. We are tiny, we are miniscule, we are of no value. On this land, on this piece of rock we call Earth, the surface is all that we can ever hope to conquer, and the surface is the only place we can survive, not for long, but at least we did. One day, when we all become nothing more than a souless corpse, these bricks may still remain. By then, their true purpose may be fulfilled, to house our flesh-less souls, thoughts, dreams and feelings. But it is only then when you will find, that, we are no longer for this world. Our time will come but art? It will never die. Our mortal selves trapped in this mortal flesh, nothing more than a living machine designed to fuck and destined to fail. One day, perhaps, may we pave the way to immortality; one day, perhaps, may we finally be god and that the God, may no longer be any more powerful than us; or, that one day, may never come. To love is to question, but fear as we may, that the answer may be more than you can ever take, than you can ever hold in your fragile mind. Bricks corrode, souls dissolve, but art, the spirit of art, may it never ever come to an end, for it may be the only thing left for an alien civilization to uncover after our inevitable and impending doom.

To answer your question, why? Why not.