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Smooth white canvas. Not a splotch, nor a tear. Not even a pencil mark tainting the surface. Perfect, empty, tranquil, nothing. Thick layers of paint, of dirt, of medium, of blood. It is easier to add than to subtract. Ignore the sticky residue as it creeps and covers every inch of smooth white beauty. Then ripped to shreds. Torned into pieces and scattered in the wind, dumped in a garbage can, forgotten in a closet. It is easier to throw away than start over.
