“A fresh coat of paint,” said Urania, “…creates a feeling...,”
“Of excitement,” added Thalia.
“A new way of seeing,” said Urania.
“Who knows what might happen in this room?” asked Thalia.
“Can we call it a studio…instead of an office?” asked Calliope. “Office sounds like starched shirts and pointy shoes. Studio sounds like a meadow with endless inspiration.”
“Words matter,” Urania and Thalia said together.
“Jinx,” said Calliope with a wink. “Now I get to use your markers!”
“What’s mine is ours…what’s yours is ours…and what’s ours… … …is ours,” said Urania. “All part of the operating unit.”
“Did I hear you right? Did you say operating unit?” asked Calliope, looking like she’d just swallowed a spider.
“Words matter,” said Thalia. “How about artist?”
“Or…creator? All part of the same creative force,” said Urania, looking like she’d just savored a square of dark chocolate.
“Poetry plum, eh?” asked Calliope.
“Premonition in a paint can…,”
“Like the bumper sticker we saw a few days ago…If you believe you can, you’re half way there.”
This made me think of my "blue-yellow" color-blind great grandfather. Essentially monochromatic vision. In the early 1900s in rural America, "window shopping" was a thing in small towns. So on those obligatory outings to window shop, he would remark, "Ain't that a purty red dress!" Like a clock that stopped ticking that is still right twice a day, eh? Why all that? I'm of the "red-green" school of color-blindness, and the "plum" swatches in the picture are... shades of gray! Just two.
Since words aren't literally "colors" in the visual sense, I'll contemplate the "Muses' banter" and eat a dark chocolate brownie...