As the paint brushes splatter the page with the paint, I am seeing your face. I am seeing their faces. I am seeing every experience you have had, and you in that story, and you in the real world. I am seeing what you have seen, I am living through your eyes even if you don’t know I am doing so. There is red, there is pink. There is black. There is a multitude of contrasting colors. They are all flying, there is no real chronological or even logical order to how I am moving my arms, how I am throwing the paint brush against this page. In the end though, there is so much meaning. There is meaning behind these dots, these splashes. There is meaning to these marks which to the naked eye would mean nothing.