During the Twilight between the Time that the Old Recedes and New Rings Itself In.
Posted by VelocityGirl (tm) at 6:27:00 PM(There are painters in my house. They float around like pieces of furniture in the background because I have gotten used to their presence and their constant swearing.)
The constant, searing smell of freshly-stripped walls hangs about everything in this house; with every gust of the buffeting warm wind that strays through the windows, and like a constant mist suspended from the ceiling.
With every still, sultry hour that passes with the ominous ticking of the obnoxiously loud clock, the stench of sweat mingles with the sweetish, penetrating odour of paint.
The brushes grate against the wall mercilessly, and little defeated splinters of paint fall to the floor, vanquished.
New cans of (winner) paint huddle in a corner, smugly viewing the old,fallen (loser) paint with a victorious gleam in their limpid paint-eyes.
The furniture huddles forlornly in the middle of the room; sad spectators to a joust they were indifferent to, under a fan with no blades covered with newspaper like an origami chandelier gone horribly wrong.
The battlefield wall stands stoic and silent, variously blotched with the warpaint of the morning's struggle, and oblivious to the new cracks that blossom like fat (useless)bloodless veins.
The workers leave.
The (new) paint stays.
The (old) paint flecks the floor.
They switch off the lights.
Tomorrow is another day.
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:)
This has to be one of the most original posts ever!!
Glad I could help or inspire or whatever.
@29a:
Thanks... but honestly, the inspiration for this post is about the only positive impact that the paintign has had on me so far.
Clandestine-ish even.