Rooftops made of abandoned picture-book spreads

I'm walking across a city where every rooftop is a spread from a book I never finished. One gutter is full of the reds that fought me, another drips with the blues that came out wrong. The sky is the color of unprimed paper and I keep trying to fix the perspective, but the roofs just shift like they know I'll never get it right. I wake up with my hands smelling faintly of gouache.