Words were always insufficient to convey what we felt. But they were always enough to say that we tried.
And since some would even argue that trying is perhaps a greater virtue than actually succeeding, the ever insufficient words would always do their job that they were tasked out to do.

Same is the case with art, creating something out of oblivion. The brush strokes might never be able to be exact and precise, but they are enough to hold inside of them, thousands of stories. What you see, feel and create will always be yours, it never was and it will never be floating around in the sea of cold calculations.

Postcards from Pluto, takes after its name. A solitary dwarf, orbiting against the set path. Trying in its small way to plant some life in the dark and dense vacuum.

There might be one too many grammatical errors or there might be occasional colouring outside the lines but the thoughts will always be penned and the colours will always be filled by hand.
Because to err is human and to revel in it.