The silence of chaos brings peace to the rustling thoughts. The paints and colours float around searching for their pimp. There are no takers of the garish shades of my riotous speech this white evening. The brush counts its strokes and misses the math of hues mingling in the filthy tray of boredom. The sleeves are a tad longer and bear remnants of an euphoric evening dedicated to a box of pastels.
The chilly winter moon looks out for a warm cover. Alas, she carelessly tied her mane to bundle her secrets.
Nah, I won't paint tonight. Let the ends remain untied. Not all songs need a crescendo; a few fallen notes suffice one foggy midnight.
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