We are the strokes of a neurotic who experiences in his paintings, jerky and awkward movements draws us, and just being an attempt at a masterpiece that was never and will never see the light in an art gallery.
One idea he tried to come to life but was never finished, a project abandoned halfway, the work of a painter who died in poverty and anonymity before completing his painting summit.
A piece of fabric for the fungus of the humidity of a dark and empty, pale colors of watercolor with the passage of time, and some lines that are blurred, which are lost in nothingness.
And so, what was once intended to be a bright image and full of life, ends up being a fuzzy set which differs only a faint outline graceless.
We are the immature fruit, the incomplete part, the success unattainable.
It is sad that someone has put enthusiasm, creativity and expectations, something that turned out to be another failure in a project that never leave the shed, and be covered with dust and cobwebs, screaming be discovered in a place where no one can distinguish it from the trash.
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