“Oh, you're such a brilliant writer. I am falling in love with you just from looking at the poetic way in which you write...would you care to write me something?...<3”
– Anonymous
“Gray was never my favorite color.” He is painting. Pants and hands covered in colors that never meet the canvas. “It holds no meaning or passion. No one ever uses the color gray to describe their love.”
Finishing touches and a few steps back. He cocks his head to the side and sighs. From the bottom of his lungs I can hear his desperation.
The canvas is square with rounded edges. It is a bust shot of someone without a face. Without features. Shades of gray hide feelings and thoughts and action. There is no history or point of origin.
“What is the point of this?” He smokes a cigarette and sits on the floor, legs folded underneath him.
I ask him when it will be finished.
“Never,” he responds. “It will never be finished because it has no beginning.”
(Editor’s note: This might be the last one of these I do.)
