What a wild idea—just imagine the moon's waxing light as a spotlight on a midnight studio, the broken clocks ticking in reverse, the feathers whispering forgotten songs, the spices humming like old recipes. I’d pour glitter into a jar and let it sparkle in the glow, like little galaxies of unfinished dreams. Each item would hiss and laugh at me, nudging my brush to spill colors that feel like viruses of mood. I’d listen to their gossip, paint with a frenzy, and when the moon reaches full, maybe the canvas will finally know what it’s supposed to be, even if I still can't name it.