Soul is an old dog eared wannabe Buddhist who beeps about transience at regular ad break intervals.
It relishes the way stark colours have ran away from the canvas, leaving it almost bare [save a few charcoal marks hopefully on the way to oblivion by the end, some hopeful end].
Never that bright, never that stark
never never that shocking heart wrenching red.
Good morning pastels, glad to know you exist. Waft past a bit in the sun shine, roam through leafy shades for a while. And leave it all a bit bare, ready for the possibility of hasty packing and somewhere else