*Hiss* goes the can. Line here, detail there. Empty can hits the ground and another is taken.

Two figures stand at a great wall; gleaming bricks begging to be a canvas. The one on the right sprays in long strokes and wide arcs, a great world taking shape upon the brickwork. It carries a satchel of blacks and whites and facts and figures, binary cans of definites and impossibilities. The scene is finished, and it moves on, leaving a world of stone and earth and a million different architectures, lonely in waiting for those who could have built them.

The left figure has taken the right’s place, and sprays life onto the dead world. Cans of joys and sorrows and possibilities and theories, sprayed abstractly across the world. From a can of dreams civilisations appear amongst the buildings, lives ready to have built what is already there. The layers of paint run, flowing in all directions and spreading like wondrous infections across the barren skin of the architect’s world. Cans empty quickly; candles burn bright and thoughts flare in unison as new cans are selected from the endless sack of shades. The figure sprays kinship and discord, the chance of happiness and the melancholy flipping of coins.

Both figures gaze upon their work, and together sign the world with the sense of an ending. The incorruptible seed of fate that one day their work will drift into absentia and once again they will be faced with brickwork. In their names runs the promise of demise and the chances of terrible destruction or glorious ascension; the surety of an ending such that they may one day paint a new beginning.

Their work is done; the brickwork canvas is filled. They replenish their sacks with certainties and doubts, and move on to another wall.