Nothing and everything.
Tendrils of color in sweeping brushstrokes would reach for the sky, communing with the varied moods of sunrise or dusk or stormy weather.
I would hang art that clashed with black snaking roads and gray exhaust. Art that soothed hurried commuters rushing from home to tomb and back to home again.
Art. Paintings. Poems. Photos. The advertisements of the soul.
Hipstory 