The painter painted pictures and watched them move.
Painted trees swayed in painted wind. Painted children played in painted streets. A painted sea lapped at a painted beach. Painted stars twinkled in a painted sky.
The artist smiled at these paintings. In the paintings everything was perfect or could be made to be so.
A little more colour here, blend a little there, add a forest or a mountain, a vase, a house, a friend. Whatever was needed the painter could put into the picture.
The painter looked away from the picture, looked around the room: dull, lifeless, flaking walls, bare floorboards, draughty, lifeless and empty. Back to the painting.
The painter painted themself into the painting, perfectly, plus a smile. But it was not enough. The painted painter needed a world.
More canvas was added, more colours, more features, more painted people for the painted painter to play with.
Every moment of the painter's life was spent on this painting, adding more and more layers to it. A painted life.
Finally the painting was done. The painter looked at the painted life and smiled.
Years later, in an empty house, full of empty rooms, some people found a room that was not empty.
The room was full of the most beautiful paintings, so vibrant and detailed you could almost lose yourself in them.
There were so many, and they were so full of life that the small pile of bones they surrounded seemed completely out of place.