Time flies when you’re having a good time.

He’s been looking at the canvas, the canvas conveniently ignored him. But what if the image is already there? It’s just a matter of effort and time. So I am sitting, waiting. For the canvas and for him.

It’s weird that we hang up pictures. Someone has produced them and we like it. When thinking about the wide array of emotions this picture triggers, I become too lazy to write. So I am sitting here, looking at a square coming to life.

Maybe it is the sunshine burning my brain cells, but I cannot help but realise that I might be a canvas, too. I am painting myself, being painted on. I am hung up, watched, marvelled about, hung down. At some point, I will probably be trashed. How long will I be up there? Will I ever be finished?

Am I Square?

And if yes, can you please paint on me?