Murmurs can be heard from portraits of his ancestors tinting his vision with words of disgrace from every corner of his four walled perspective.
He tries to picture a full sky but his canvas lacks the tilt to invision the lost personally of a genre he couldn't grace with his clumsy fingers.
Fancy windows decorate his ancient eyesight, caging his abilities inside a glass decorated vessel.
He hopes those windows will open once the sunset lines with his colourless spirit.
Yet all he televisions is world's ability to be creative While he alone emits thus borrowed colours on the dirt Asphalted dessert his imagination dies in.