The colour of the grasslands in the fall is the beginning of art.
The colour used by marketers to stimulate your reptilian brain is its end:
It was said that the Great War of 1914-1918 killed the culture that sought for refinement through art. No, it looks to me that it was a symptom. There is a life, still, outside of drugs.
Otherwise, the dead died for this:
They didn’t die for anything. They died, often horribly, mostly for nothing, usually because of gross incompetence on the part of their leadership, and honourable adherence to duty and friends. We can live for them. There is honour in that.
Either that, or the killing machines won.