Untitled.

You spend weekends splitting those you trust and those you love and those you despise into a deck of 51 cards and shuffle until it seems impossible that 2 will touch, and alas, your final card fits.
Great risks yield the rewards of romantic Monday night dinners, $9 mimosas with your father, and blissful humility. Everything is comprehensible with strings of imagination attached, securely double knotted or at times let loose for an overcast atmosphere of dreams and unique interpretations.
We lay on our backs and hold the hands of children as the colors of our visions drift but never fade. If it's euphoria you crave, find your parade.
There is art hidden in the world created through disturbances and phenomenas with mood and depth, until we attempt to measure it with the word "beauty", simultaneously reducing it to common understanding and categorizing it along with other abused interpretations such as love, prostituted for an exchange.
We are all inventors is our own right, drafting unique emotions and interpreting them as amicable monsters, encouraging self-destruction for the revitalization of character.
The problem herein lies within the fleeting feeling of anguish disguised as life and as vivid as a child dropping their slice of cake on the floor. Artists have no color on their palette to paint this pain. Sleeping visions on canvas yield interpretations; the cake never lands, tears fall faster and that fleeting feeling is melancholy replacing gravity. Use shoe strings to keep from floating away. Imagination and other true things never expire.