Night Mare Ride

She was head-deep in the paint, pearly globs of cadmium white cloying at the back of her mouth and clogging her already full throat with information. The horse she'd dragged up out of the metaphor tide this visual gateway had offered was hard to handle - a fiesty mare, nightmare. This was the only way to travel though. Paint dripping off her body, through her head, and bang -- she was out travelling through the universal medium of thought towards an idea - the painting left behind. the painting was a fossilised moment, a map of event, her skin shed so the world would know where she had gone and where she had been.