There’s a place in the universe where a cosmic squid paints a world upon a canvas of stone and iron. For medium he uses seawater and sand, for pigment his own ink. The fibers of his brush are the strands of shattered timelines bundled and bound together, and every black stroke glitters with the powdered shells of long-dead worlds.

Mountains, hills, rivers, oceans, and clouds above all find shape under the careful gaze of the Painter, and they continue to mount up into greater detail and sharper perfection as he adds shadow and depth to the pale canvas.

Line upon line. Layer upon layer. Dark ink upon grey stone and ruddy iron. The strands of time pull the world into focus behind the sweeping strokes of the Painter.

Every care is taken to place each stroke precisely where the Painter desires, but paint will always do as it will. Paint will flow where it flows, and it will gather where it gathers, and no force can quite rule it otherwise.

So life began upon the painting as the ink and seawater and sand flowing from the Painter’s brush conspired to overrule the Artist above. First a cell, then a colony, and then an explosion of all wriggling and swimming things filled the seas.

Eyes, fins, gills, teeth, scales, legs, feathers, hair, and above all a coalescence of intelligence into the waking souls of walking creatures who would shape the world to their whims as the Painter did according to his.

So they took the wood of trees, born from the ink of the Painter’s brush, and bound them in wood, born from the ink of the Painter’s brush, and ground themselves pigments from the flora and fauna born from the ink of the Painter’s brush or else scraped from the very earth and iron that were his canvas, and they sought to overthrow the will of the Painter with his own devices.

But the Painter’s own devices they were, and while paint will flow as it flows, the Painter knows his medium, and he will herd and shape it as he so desires.

So he blotted them out with storms of ink, covering every feature and detail of their waking souls and roving bodies in an impenetrable black wash.

In contrast they lived and moved.

In homogenous dark they ceased to be.

Yet the Painter paints on, caring not that they were ever there.

Thoughts? Feelings? Scathing accusations? Let me know in the comments! Also share this frankly odd story/allegory/hallucination with your friends. All proceeds go toward helping a certain squid build out his color palette. Really.