The Painter

Five thousand hours.

One painting sewn together with tears that have never touched the ground. The paintbrush that will only make several dozen strokes for just half of the creation. A delicate creation that will be torn into many pieces like the spreading galaxies. Pieces that must be picked and formed together again. And again. And again. And again.

Three thousand hours.

The universe is set into misery. A dangerous lack of depth and missing colors will kill the man who looks into it. Red is taken from the blood of the war of eons. Blue is torn from its mother, the skies. The green is stolen from us all. The black is born and only grows as one can cover cancer with a veil of rice paper. The canvas IS rice paper.

One thousand hours.

Death and nihilism is a necessity to complete the painting. The painting will be seen by the same millions. The same millions until the become sick of it. Vomiting vile fluids that will stick to your veins and pores. The painting will watch with vile contempt and agony until it despises its creator. It will grow to learn, but perhaps never to love.

The painting is divine and cursed with a beauty only born from a creator.


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