critique my writing please?

Sometimes i guess i hate getting inspired cause i leave off a really good story i had started before and start a new one. This was written within like the last fifteen minutes [my microsoft is crashing and my mouse wont work on it so i couldnt correct my errors sorry]

Sorry if its long…

Sitting atop his stoop, gazing upon the white land he came to know and love, Oliver noticed his world depleting. He had lived here, alone, not knowing where he came from, not understanding who he was, only having the distinct urge to run his fingers along the smooth white surfaces. That was what Oliver did, for hours and hours letting his soft fingers become tough and ridden with calluses. But Oliver had a much more unique talent then that one, as he wandered living in his bland world, he once saw an end. Where the white would stop and it would become dark and misty slowly fading into a deep world Oliver dared never to explore. Sometimes he would go back to the edge, curiosity, maybe, only to see the darkness overcoming the bright white. Oliver worried more and more his world would come to an end, bringing him to sit on the floor and move his fingers making pictures. He could see them, but as he blinked they would vanish, his wonderful pieces gone, and he would start again with something new.
But one day as the darkness was just as far as the eye could see, coming much closer then ever before, tears filled his eyes and he drew. The blues and greens spilling from his fingertips enchanted the floor beneath. As he wiped his eyes he realized that these pictures wouldn’t disappear as he looked away or blinked, they stayed in view no matter how long he looked away. Oliver used his skills to build a new world, forcing the darkness far away. He drew grass and fences and small cream houses, buildings with dome roofs and gardens with yellow roses. He wouldn’t stop until he was finished, finished painting the windows to each house, the locks on each door, the lace curtains for each golden window sill, the spilling fountains made of only the finest stone.
As Oliver grew, so did his art, becoming more and more real. The waterfalls crashing in to the water below splashing rainbows in the sprinkling mist, the wind brushing against the shutters veering the silence from his ears, developing into reality. Oliver made birds that sung sweet lullabies and fish that had scales that turned all colors as the sun rose into and left the blue sky.
Though, as Oliver grew and his hearing of the birds singing and the water splashing faded and the smell of bread roasting and the rainbows that grew across the sky became dull, Oliver felt something was missing. No matter how many roses he added to an ivy wall or how ever many golden brown buttered rolls he drew just barely coming out of the roaring stove fire he couldnt fill it. Oliver grew old, seeking vigurously for the thing he needed, drawing anything that came to mind to perfect his world. Soon all that was left of poor Oliver was the wrinkled man sitting in a large detailed arm chair pulstered with blue silk cushion in front of what was left of a roaring flame. The embers crackled just loud enough for his old ears to pick up and the roasting smell just barely lingered in his drooping nose. His mind thinking, though too jumbled to make any sense, as his pointer carved a deep hole into his chair. No color came, just the dull scraping of his fingernail.
That was it.

MORE INFO
gotta ask, i was confused. In the begining, right? it says came… should that be come? and like the birds who sung … should that be sang? idk … im bad at that sorta thing. and with that whole than then thing. little help with that.
This is an intro to like a fantasy more as story and this is the story of how they came to be, like a kids story. And this girl finds that darkness is comeing back… somthing like that…
YOU DONT HAVTA READ IT ALL!!!! really. just comment on however much [i just put up all i wrote cause like… sometimes people always ask why io stopped where i did. so i just added it all.