[He smiles just a little bit, something sad but amused as well.]
Fake, sister? I don't think so. Not unless you got thinking me to be fake.
[He doubts that. If he's one thing he'd like to think he's honest. She should know, from artist's perspective, what he gets at. Hopefully she'll understand.]
Painting over it to a blankness seems strange, ay. But you can paint a new picture entire up over it. You can fix the flaws. You can add life and color and beauty. The canvas can collect it all like experience done lived. Until one motherfucking day, the picture ain't what it was being no more. It ain't that what's underneath got being gone, for it backs the colors new, but altogether, new shape is making form. Life and experience and passions and memory. Sounds the least fake of things what be.
[Even if it came through terrible means.]
Carrying around a blank canvas... I'd figure that means one ain't never lived yet. Maybe the strokes is smaller. [A pause.] A lot smaller. And maybe the pictures painted got being done near perfect by watching of how another's got formed, mistakes learned through them. But we's all got a little mark, I think. Even the very best of us. They just form the prettiest pictures up with it.
[She is small in his arms. He'd love just to keep her there, never a need for leaving.]
Does that make ill yet? A world what ain't got blank canvas? Just one what's trying to paint a better picture?
no subject
Fake, sister? I don't think so. Not unless you got thinking me to be fake.
[He doubts that. If he's one thing he'd like to think he's honest. She should know, from artist's perspective, what he gets at. Hopefully she'll understand.]
Painting over it to a blankness seems strange, ay. But you can paint a new picture entire up over it. You can fix the flaws. You can add life and color and beauty. The canvas can collect it all like experience done lived. Until one motherfucking day, the picture ain't what it was being no more. It ain't that what's underneath got being gone, for it backs the colors new, but altogether, new shape is making form. Life and experience and passions and memory. Sounds the least fake of things what be.
[Even if it came through terrible means.]
Carrying around a blank canvas... I'd figure that means one ain't never lived yet. Maybe the strokes is smaller. [A pause.] A lot smaller. And maybe the pictures painted got being done near perfect by watching of how another's got formed, mistakes learned through them. But we's all got a little mark, I think. Even the very best of us. They just form the prettiest pictures up with it.
[She is small in his arms. He'd love just to keep her there, never a need for leaving.]
Does that make ill yet? A world what ain't got blank canvas? Just one what's trying to paint a better picture?