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Nature rarely gives it to us, magpies and razorbills betrayed by their innards and amber eyes. Almost perfect contrasts in marble and wet salty sea stones sullied by grey middle men. Nature is not foolish enough, not ignorant enough to assume it can provide anything as stark as true black on white. No, the only place to find it is humanity.


Does that make humanity separate from nature? Does black and white render power? And who owns this power? Businessmen and cloud high executives steal it to print statistics and predictable commentary. A stack of new reports sitting next to their plastic-triangle sandwiches and meal-deal-spoils. City roads tangled in black and white markings, sterile vehicles reminded of their position. That new car smell keeping everybody happy.


I say give it to the artists. Let them write with ink and chaos.

Let them tattoo blank pages with deftly drawn treble clefs and badly written jokes and poetry that's a bit too on the nose. Let them create and get sick of their work, let them show it to others and spill coffee on it. 


Let them drench the world in black and white 

to allow us all to see in colour.

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