Under the rain, four feet are parallel. Under the umbrella, two heads lean towards each other as the cold anchors its presence at nighttime.
The symmetry is alive. The alignment, the strokes are the vessel. You’re bound to arrive to the altitudes when you’re not seeking. And even if the asymmetrical links, forces, slips, thunders, boils, nothing will be destroyed. The truest is unstoppable. Under the rain, it breaks out on the moist leaves, it reflects on the puddles on the pavement.
That’s my painting speaking on the wall when I was dreaming in my sleep.