The rusted metal grips the teal walls, clamps them down and spreads like a parasite. Age is inescapable. The scars are permanent. Nobody will rebuild this place. Nobody will paint it anew. The only path to freedom is disintegration.

Fairly straightforward point. Vectors, blocks and axes.

A palette cleanser. Calm, minimalist lines dance on a subdued background.

The stone wall grips you, throws you down, bolts your limbs to the ground. Another example.

Take the wheel, murky waters ahead.