All the pains, all the pins, all the paints, all the coors, all the colors. Remind us of the colors of our past, present, and future selves. Discombobulated alkaline sunset wokeness in the blink of death on the floor there dining, bleeding. Severed simply like you might see a ham in the grocery store. But what is this still life when the earth is still spinning around and alleged time still tickets, ticks from the wall clock in some foyer you might be familiar with. Nothing is perfect. The wide-mouthed paints, dipping brushes in plastic containers. Dark greens and dreamy blues. Artistry. Stand back and it all makes sense. Get close and it's like a whole new meaning. I am nothing now. Just nucleus of a cell waiting for my time to go or die. Atomic shiver and shake. Anxiety cell. Pains, paints to cure all. Mellow yellow, brightness sun. Same surfer on the green waves. We should paint more as adults. I don't understand why we don't. I should go out and buy paints and paper or Mr. Sketchers smelly markers or the Crayola smelly markers. The yellow smells like lemon, the black smells like smores (or licorice for Mr. Sketchers). Blue is blueberry, purple is grape, green is apple. I miss those days! I miss those markers! I want to color more. I want order and peace of mind. I want more colors. Arts and crafts. Pastels waiting to be used.
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