As With Van Gogh Art Work Is

There is no greater color than that for what color is. Meandering red, yellows, browns rushing into and out of a greater mind than mine, being smart a genius really is. A snap shot in time, dying young body parts sprayed with a flash of insight only death could properly display. The colors are a good bowl of cherries where I am and am not certain you can see what I see that I can't. Left out in the open my position on life is not as yours but a spring break of colors displayed out in the open with the rich smell of such colors that even you and you can taste. Tree's with out branches are unlike bushes with out leaves of witch none are green. The wagging tounge the younger the lips being thick or full when painted red are but a reminder of those other lips rubbed with yellow oil. Finally the clothes those rags, rubbed in the dirt of dirty rich dirt that you won't consider much less wear. Then theirs the flash a flash of bright light left in plain view of the night where you slumber and sleep any way.