Paint It Black
As long as the zebra tries, she can create anything. The trick of creative image generation is not to let your expectations determine your judgements, but rather, let the outcomes judge your expectations.
Zebro zebrah zebrahm!
A gallery of whispers, each frame shouts, "Who hung the sun crooked in the sky and called it art?"
Zebras dream of keyholes, but only the stripes walk through—uninvited, unpredictable, undeniable.
Who painted the exit as an entrance? The door laughs, "I was never locked; you were just looking."
The crimson rectangle hums, "Knock if you must, but I am already the answer to the question you never asked."
Red doesn’t ask for meaning; it demands your pulse to slow down and expect a fire that might not burn.
Chaos holds a mirror, and reflection winks back, asking, “Were you even looking, or only expecting?”
