If my emotions about this monster could be capture by a canvas it would be larger than life itself. Standing a thousand feet tall it would start as a base of royal purple, with all the hope in our hearts. Then splattered with deep crimson and bright scarlets we would start to see the face of this demon. Sapphire tears would be dragged delicately to cover what chances we still have; Artists shall climb ladders, lazily leaned against the masterpiece; reaching to brush the final stroke. We stand back and look at what we've done, The painters hand finally to weak to continue. And what's left the healthy ones will review.
Museums of people walking by.
'My three year old could make that.'
'That's not art. ' - No it's reality.
Or maybe it's really just child's play.