As the poet said:
I'm painting again, I'm cleaning my brain
and a cogent dream managed to penetrate the labyrinth and accompanying moat which separates my consciousness from my sleeping brain. I was working on a diptych in some public area, like a train station or an airport. The left panel was a ink wash of the Tree of Life, or my interpretation of it at least. Sitting to my left was a woman, and on the table in front of her was a brush, dipped in crimson or cadmium. She nodded at me, and I started using the brush, adding a liberal amount of paint onto my sketch. I was quite pleased with the result; much more vibrant tree than previously.
However, the woman rapidly became annoyed with me for, “ruining the brush!”
I was dumfounded, because not only did the painting have a shimmering life now, but I really was sure she wanted me to use this brush, or why else would it be sitting there, beckoning.
previous usage of this quote
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