Nothing is black and white

Our city must be Something

Our city is musty

Full of grey hues of man

Puffing our own gas, Clouds

To make the sky ours

We make it our right

We can build taller than the trees

Prove it,

Our city becomes cubic

>Nothing is black and white
>
>Our city must be Something
>
>Our city is musty
>
>Full of grey hues of man
>
>Puffing our own gas, Clouds
>
>To make the sky ours
>
>We make it our right
>
>We can build taller than the trees
>
>Prove it,
>
>Our city becomes cubic
>

I enjoy your work. But it seems like as soon as I get into it, it's over. I end up feeling kinda hurt in the end.

i feel you. i just translate whatever comes to mind. ill start going and then it just cuts off. and its over. i figure thats the way the universe meant for it because when i try to finish a story it feels rough as if its telling me to leave it alone :/ but i do try

peace and love always
thanks for the feedback

i figure
>thats the way the universe meant for it because when i try to
>finish a story it feels rough as if its telling me to leave it
>alone


O, i c. Actually, painters feel the same way about their work. After it's done, it's done. If you add on, you'll ruin it, same if you take away from it. Ok I got it now.