My comment is a kind of chaotic kingdom, flying free, spreading across the rooftops, and meekly continuing to replace the blues and grays. Can art stop flowing? Can artists abandon creation and allow themselves a life of simple beings consumed by nothingness, existential emptiness or reproach? There is always a restorative tomorrow; we distance ourselves from art, and its thin blanket envelops us and brings us back to reunion. Something has changed; we fill our eyes with colors and our ears with music; it tangles in our hair, leaving us naked when art abandons us; it's a sensation on our skin. Have you felt it? Can you stop painting or writing? I get lost, labyrinths, minotaurs, eyes and hands that mix with artificial blue blood. We have turquoise and the sea, we'll bring sand, we can build castles and paint clouds, grays, violets; art can be figurative and romantic; it is art, it endures.
@wakeupkitty