I don't know what makes the frozen crystals on the ground so fascinating, or what makes the sparkling kaleidoscope of winter wisps that tendril across the window each morning so beautiful.
I couldn't tell you why the sheet of pressed wood is so intriguing to fill with ink.
White is the absence of color, the undrawn world. White is emptiness and fullness. White is calming, yet it excites the mind.
We don't like white; we always want to fill it with color- to get rid of the void.
White is everything at the beginning and nothing at the end.