An artist never truly dies but when they leave their physical body they get to do more than just paint the sky, they get to rearrange the stars, they get to craft their perfect sunset, they get to draw the moon, and live on in all the smiles they made and all the lives they have saved. We bleed our favorite colors, and we’re a canvas for razor-blades, burn scars, and hate, but in the end they will look up at the sky and weep because they made us beautiful. We took their hate and made the sky love the ocean again, made the sun forgive the moon they put us down and we built ourselves back up again and again we did not give up… (Feel