A stool protests with fresh weight, mimicking its ancestry of old limbs creaking in strong winds. And the cicadas, their constant bleating, polka-dotting summer nights like the stars do the skies, gone. Replaced by beaks softly echoing the first shrill whistles of fireworks. Willow tree branches sway back and forth with the breeze peeping through the window watching you work.
Fingers bend, stretch, yawn - bubble gum popping. Paintbrush hairs begin to whisper, like skin sweeping eraser shavings off paper. Only, mistakes are kept here, transformed, glorified. Uniquely that of the stretched, thin skin that stands silent, open, bleeding.
Brush dives, swirls, smacking color like small toes pattering through puddles again and again until - padding feet across the floor draw brush back, lips part with a wet click, corners turn up, and willow tips caressing glass sigh, ahhh, imperfection.