The sky was the world's canvas. He could tell that's why this delicate creation was crafted with snaking and meticulous hands. We, these little things on this little dot, were the easel, as the sky ran its pining but never dwindling fingers across the air of blank grays and colors of shadow. Sometimes, he bore new paintings into the sky, using his own brush to create a new world, on top of the already existing masterpiece. He was always fascinated with this new and wonderous magic he could weave, given to him by Father, as he referred. Father never gave a mind of the little planet titled Earth, but he, oh he, could not help but want to take this and swirl more vibrant and bouncing hues onto the already beautiful Utopia.
