Faithful brush. It paints over everything and blesses the disappeared. The hair damaged and everywhere. It doesn't care. We don't care. It syncs with rainbows. It adds more fun to there where missed is the sun. And by colors blindly they live. Loosing time and timing the loss. Only colors left alive and curious. To play the remains, to not betray the chaos that they left behind and forth. In this madness the paintbrush was asked to live. With the hair now damaged, for the play was wild. With the paint now dry and cumbersome. It doesn't care. We don't care. We paint. Over everything. Becoming anything but something. Catching a spell, for who may dwell, in consciousness that spots the knots into dots.
Random thoughts, twisted meanings and recreational aspects.