The brushstroke paints the frown, deep lines creased and wrinkled into expression.
Dust moves and settles gracefully with perfect pattern onto the unused tool.
Shadows made clear from the light sneaking in through the dirt stained window.
The air is thick and coarse, unwelcoming and inhospitable.
There is shame, from lack of action and care, so the hand moves.
Lifting the object brings peace, because we are what we were meant to be.
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