With a bus engine for a lullaby, the newborn ahead of him sleeps in her young mother’s arms. Not used to her obviously fake nails, the women to his right struggles to relearn how to use her phone. The man in the row behind her continues his quest to discover new ways to sit in his seat. The typing of the woman on his left grows more frantic as she realizes the relationship she is trying to save with will never work. Wondering how forcefully he'll have to back his seat into the person sitting behind him to make him stop kicking his chair, tiredly he sat in a once cold phthalo green cheap carpet seat, now stained closer to sap.
Outside: Pollution, decay, and morning light.
Mountains made from out of rigging. Docile machines reduced to just simple abstract shapes. Hard geometry in the bones of Bellows’s landscape on a soft Corot kind of morning. Rust reds read purple without the support of their complement. The achromatic purple with a body of raw umber that follows you everywhere in winter. Earth tones naturally cover the sky. Translucent orange, or an indian yellow blended with a cadmium hue if you're cheap, sculpt hard contours critics would vilify over forms catching the morning light. Cold blue, probably through association, color shadows.
He always told himself he’ll come back to listen and paint.