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Description
There was always a reoccurring nightmare; always that same dream, those same painstaking sweat-soaked moments that crushed the heart and lungs and applied so much pressure that death was imminent and all too certain.

In this vision, there was always a reoccurring place. It seemed to be a house and yet it was very much outdoors and still yet there was a window. The other side of the window reflected somewhere else and yet nowhere at all. There were stars and the night and the entire world and universe but it was all confined into a small rectangle, squished and compressed to fit the scale of the window.

A clean blank empty canvas sat in the middle of the room. In this room, the empty canvas was not merely white – it was empty, devoid of space and matter and existence. Despite all of this, the canvas was indefinitely there. Carefully balanced on nearby stool was a painter's palette of colors that reflected every tone there was to be found in the isolated world. There was also a brush, dry and smooth and lovely and colorless.

If there was anything absolutely definite about the memory it was the insatiable yearning to defile the pristine purity of the empty-empty canvas. Oh, how much it was longed to wield the virgin brush and create clamor in the monotony, to introduce havoc and confusion and life into the place that lacked humanity.

Even with arsons of paints and colors and emotions at the ready despite the wanting and yearning and longing for havoc and discombobulating chaos and despicable wishing, nothing could be done to the empty space. That blank, empty, devoid canvas; the indefinite lacking and existing, teasing, tantalizing, prompting of inner humanity; the want the need the absolute lust for chaos and hedonism.

With one stroke, the world was painted white.

Description
There was always a reoccurring nightmare; always that same dream, those same painstaking sweat-soaked moments that crushed the heart and lungs and applied so much pressure that death was imminent and all too certain.

In this vision, there was always a reoccurring place. It seemed to be a house and yet it was very much outdoors and still yet there was a window. The other side of the window reflected somewhere else and yet nowhere at all. There were stars and the night and the entire world and universe but it was all confined into a small rectangle, squished and compressed to fit the scale of the window.

A clean blank empty canvas sat in the middle of the room. In this room, the empty canvas was not merely white – it was empty, devoid of space and matter and existence. Despite all of this, the canvas was indefinitely there. Carefully balanced on nearby stool was a painter's palette of colors that reflected every tone there was to be found in the isolated world. There was also a brush, dry and smooth and lovely and colorless.

If there was anything absolutely definite about the memory it was the insatiable yearning to defile the pristine purity of the empty-empty canvas. Oh, how much it was longed to wield the virgin brush and create clamor in the monotony, to introduce havoc and confusion and life into the place that lacked humanity.

Even with arsons of paints and colors and emotions at the ready despite the wanting and yearning and longing for havoc and discombobulating chaos and despicable wishing, nothing could be done to the empty space. That blank, empty, devoid canvas; the indefinite lacking and existing, teasing, tantalizing, prompting of inner humanity; the want the need the absolute lust for chaos and hedonism.

With one stroke, the world was painted white.