A life burns through a fire of enlightenment: the red ocher on canvas designing a desert. Its truth, the oil we spread on each of our bodies, each of our objects, coloring the world over.
Beauty doesn't answer. Beauty is the motes of dust we often miss unless the light shines through the window at just the right angle, highlighting each floating speck like tufts of dandelion in summer.
But we hardly know them. Like the lines in our own hands. how we forget and are so often surprised that they are there.