We Are Bound By Symmetry

Bit 18

Squeezing at their plastic containers, I splash little glossy puddles onto a thick white canvas.
Barn red, Deep Ocean Blue, Canary Yellow. What if barns were painted yellow? Barn Yellow?
Painting on canvas is so restricting. It's like when you're a child and you're only allowed in the yard to play. There's some much more space than that! But you've got to stay in the yard otherwise you'll have to come inside and do the dishes instead.
I want to lift my canvas above my head with its gobs of primary colors and let it slowly drip down onto my hair. Why can't paint be in my hair?
It makes the walls seem too tall, all of the reality that surrounds material objects. Shampoo is for washing, not for dancing. Carrots are for eating, not for jewelry.
I want to sleep in a giant mixture of paints, possibly contained in the bathtub.
I want to make love in it.
I want slick, sliding walls of purple and saffron that just pours down over the floor.
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For real though, I would like a sandwich right now.