There was once a painter who painted in chaos. Swirls of color and shape; points of light and expansive clouds, all haphazard, devoid of meaning. 

    The man did not know why he painted as he did, and he could put no name to the works that flowed from his hands to canvas. In a lifetime of painting, there was no thought of reason, no rhyme of knowing, just chaos abounding and explosion in paint that was a strange relief to his artist mind.

    After his years had wrung all his work out of him, the painter died.

    That was when a most curious observation was made.

    When all his works were put together, and people sat back to stare, a memory struck them. It was the images of night and sky, long forecasted revealing distant pasts that plucked the chord. A wave of photographs filled with color and light and clouds moved across their minds. And as the total of his work was seen in whole, it was clear that his madness held an order most unexpected. Indeed, it was in taking this long view that the observer realized the man had, in point of fact, painted the stars.

    Thus did the viewers think of the chaos of their own lives, and felt the calm of peace and the pull of adventure. For one never knows...

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