Run, artist. There is a city the color of cement, where no one ever stops running. Instead of streets, there are wheels, and on each one a person runs, all day, all their life, never moving an inch. They said it had always been this way. And because everyone was running, no one had time to ask why. Among those grey people, an artist carries a small flame in his chest, the only color in the whole world. It gets in his way, makes him stumble, makes him look up when everyone looks down. Tired of