We have lost our light under a fiery sky. We have lost our sight with eyes open wide. Yet now I have found the sky again. It is the same colour as it had been then—though not in your eyes.
Good night and fare well; the evening bells toll my death knell. Take up arms in flowers; cursed be these lives of ours.
Who are you? I didn't paint you, yet the brush is in my hand. I couldn't warn you, and now it's too late.
Born from flesh. Exist as flesh. Make no mark. Gone. Nothing remains.
The dam has broken, but not the one of the eyes; it is the one of the heart, of the soul, of the mind. The thoughts flow endlessly and without direction, yet still cling to the beaten path of the buried truth.
The painting is splattered in deep colours—black, red, grey—that appear to struggle fruitlessly against the stark white canvas.
It feels so good to laugh, and it feels so terrible to have that laughter be silenced. The best part of laughing for hours (the aftermath) feels heavy like failure, but you know it's not, until it is.