"Yes, it is," he replied dumbly, still in a love-sick haze.
The world isn't a blank canvas.
It's black.
Black with corruption.
Black with greed.
It has to be repainted.
Orange, yellow, and red, the flames licking up against the smoky sky.
A form of red, brown, and white to pull him back from decent into that darkness.
All of it is blurred by tears, sounds blocked by screams.
Paint it. Paint it. Frenzied motions of madness. Fight it away. Cover the black, but it continues to seep through the paint. It's not thick enough.
There is only one way to make it stay.
Blood is thicker than water.