Canvas Wall.

This canvas can't wait for opening night.

Inside these lines that shape white texture. Fluorescent appeal and achromic bright wires, they all brought me here. And waxen upholstery wraps walls without color and blinds me to tears. In silent wonder I watch my reflection, as the carpet engulfs me whole.

The buzz is--this guy's amazing.

My clothes are all gone and I'm left with a pale suit of skin. Skim milk layers of paper, all connected: a puzzle. I'm interlocked with pixels and pastels which soak in old film and fine wine.

The scoop is that there isn't anyone close.

Fireworks of color and dynamite flashes. Applause and awe. Behind the window is an ocean liner; stars freckle the barren dark shine and illuminate the shimmery steel--the gloss of human imagination. The ceiling paints blue with aeroplanes and capes and heroes. Heroes of our past, past love, past hate, past scenery.

I've heard too much to pass.

And when the veil is finally lifted--the gasps start to soften. When that cape flutters to the floor-- tears feel less real. When that steel is finally shattered and that ribbon is finally cut.

I open my eyes and everything's the same. I open my eyes and everything's different. This facade, this polish is just a reflection. I open my eyes and all I'm left with is this apartment. It's walls. It's windows. It's carpet. It's blank.