Many a proud visage caught by a brushstroke hangs in this hall. Cruel, hard faces, some of them. The eyes, though…
To see the artist’s hand, a careless flick of the wrist; careless, his face, you’ll notice, proves that’s a lie. Concentration, like a man walking a tightrope who, countless times having crossed from pole to pole, has not forgotten that death waits below, and to fail could very well mean death with his clientele, when success brings no guarantee of life. His fickle masters hand out both blessings liberally.
Yet, by his sable craft, he has outlasted many peers.
A few Notes: I feel burned out. I don’t even really want to write, lately, which is strange for me. Anyway, I’m planning on heading out to the beach tomorrow to try to clear my head. Next few posts are going to be automatic. I asked Grok to make the picture for the posts.
Tale Told 