Under an inverted lamp's white shadow, in the corner of a yellow lit room—its ivory opaque darkness, with the pretensions of a full moon.
Incoherent spot of ashen light, playing softly on the curves of little things dotted about on a table; the table, a dark, murky wooden piece of banal furniture, of only the most practical purpose.
It houses miniatures and post its, paintbrushes and blank sheets.
A big canvas of thick cotton paper lays impatient, inert on its wooden surface. A pair of irritated arms hovering over it, stroking air; drawing invisible slashes into the slightly fluid wind from a distant fan.
Trying to imagine into the transparent blank of nothingness, images that could be transferred onto the white blank of the white sheet; of colours bright that would bleed into a watery subtlety on that thirsty cotton canvas, that aches to be painted upon.
Etching a theoretical sketch into the air with fingers bold, that turn into timid caresses on practical paper.
Sometimes images only house in your mind, and refuse to replicate themselves through brush tips.
They live their colourful lives in the invisible wind, never letting you imitate them on a piece of sheet.
Fling that pen in to the abyss and bring down those irritated arms with a violent thud on the face of this wooden table. Finger shadows looming large under the ghost pale light of a white lamp, in the corer of a yellow lit room.
Incoherent spot of ashen light, playing softly on the curves of little things dotted about on a table; the table, a dark, murky wooden piece of banal furniture, of only the most practical purpose.
It houses miniatures and post its, paintbrushes and blank sheets.
A big canvas of thick cotton paper lays impatient, inert on its wooden surface. A pair of irritated arms hovering over it, stroking air; drawing invisible slashes into the slightly fluid wind from a distant fan.
Trying to imagine into the transparent blank of nothingness, images that could be transferred onto the white blank of the white sheet; of colours bright that would bleed into a watery subtlety on that thirsty cotton canvas, that aches to be painted upon.
Etching a theoretical sketch into the air with fingers bold, that turn into timid caresses on practical paper.
Sometimes images only house in your mind, and refuse to replicate themselves through brush tips.
They live their colourful lives in the invisible wind, never letting you imitate them on a piece of sheet.
Fling that pen in to the abyss and bring down those irritated arms with a violent thud on the face of this wooden table. Finger shadows looming large under the ghost pale light of a white lamp, in the corer of a yellow lit room.
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