Genur.art

It has been centuries. We have given it the entire earth's GDP and yet still it whispers "more paint". The madness must stop: the painting now extends beyond dimensions, beyond the surface of the earth into some other place, that place whose name is unutterable where the endless one dwells. We are out of money, but it wants more, always more more more: the effort, the meat, the human lives spent in its service. The artist is long gone, that much is sure now, but the damn thing paints itself. There is nothing left but endlessness