Melted

Pourings of colour disguise substance, strikingly shining masks, vitreous beauty and ostensible permanence.
But as the gaze descends, the eye realizes that such perfection is evanescent and unreal, and it melts into puddles of colour that collect the matter. The coulour/mask reveals its nature: aimless, with no shape or texture, devoid of meaning and even beauty.
The scene is framed by unadulterated white, shunned even by shades. Milky perfection at first, lack of contents then.

What would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it?
Michail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita, 1966/67