At the helm Painting

That night I couldn’t sleep for a long time. There was pitch-black darkness outside the window. The silence of the sleeping street raised a shiny revolver above her head, cocked it, and with an ironic smile, aimed a shot into the sky. The gun hung in the air for a moment and then fell to the floor. The start of the uncompromising race has been given. Through the gray curtain left by the combustion of the gunpowder charge, the thoughts in my head exploded in a wild gallop. Each of them, like a stream of colored smoke, flew, rushing to be the first to reach the finish line. In flight, they acquired strange shapes, intertwining with each other. There were no barriers for them. Their finish line was not supposed to be a place at all, they were heading into the early morning, upon which the first rays of the summer sun shone timidly. The canvas standing in the room became a mirror of what was happening. He could no longer remain silent. The time has come!