If there were two of me and I stood upon myself, I still couldn't reach the top. If I rolled over and over again, three times, I'd just make it to the edge.
I'm way more colorful than you, (and I check the "white" box).
You're mostly black, and the blotch of red is such an eyesore. The beige is well...beige, and that white line is a postscript.
Ties the whole piece together Mr. Still thought, when he finished you.
Craning my neck, I stand looking at you. Alone in a room, I can hear soft echoing murmurs, *What does it mean? What does it mean?
You don't make sense. From top to bottom, left to right. A displayed plane of utter confusion.