If there was noise in the void, it would sound like the snow kicked up softly by the wind on the countryside. Empty. Cold. Colorless. Nauseating. There’s no separation between the ground and sky, expelling the urge to take one step further.

A tree’s shadow is disgusting because it’s just a reflection of absence in this context. The sight of a silo in the distance only represents past exhaustion—labor that’s long gone. For a structure that has pulled many into null existence, it should have died long ago.

As for paint, any kind of object filled with non-solid matter will suffice. They need to fit comfortably in his hand, which means bigger than a gum ball but smaller than a cantaloupe. But also neither if it’s late enough or early enough or both. Perfume, hot sauce, candles (lit), beer can, shampoo bottle, cup of coffee. These are the guidelines that do neither guiding nor line setting, but they seem to be instinctively followed by him and implicitly by me.