The dull glow of the fluorescent lights pounded into the barely raised head, flooding through the pale blue channels of the strained eyes. First the frames of his black horn-rimmed glasses, then his portraits of his mother and father on the wall, and then he saw the blunt beige of his canvas in front of him. Two, three and then four seconds the pale eyes flashed shut again. A calming blackness, perhaps, the footholds with which to ascend into sleep.
Once again this solace had evaded him, the black rims of his glasses, the portraits, and the canvas. That goddamn canvas. He looked to the floor where drips of paint surrounded the feet of his stool. Fatigued, he watched as his palette fell from the tired hands, smearing paint on the floor. The dull glow of the fluorescent lights flickered. The aching eyes making their way back up, his canvas returned to his view.
He stared at it. His unfinished portrait, his beauty he desperately needed to bring to the world; an abstract form in his mind u