These days, his afternoons are empty films. Slow, monotonous, senseless conversations and images that jumble back and forth across the screen. It reciprocates his thoughts, fragmented as they are, but beautiful in all its betrayed glory.
That sickly tree, graceful in its deathly state, overlooks him as he gazes up the sky. The thin branches blocks his view of the feathers and marshmallows that glided gracefully across the blue canvas. He ponders at how boring placidity is. He yearns for a splatter, a sabotage, an exclamation of emotions.
But then again, boredom is a gift to artists; to observe controlled chaos, to wrap all of it into words. And as his pen utters monumental poetry in his notebook, a flock of birds steadily flies ahead, breaking the stillness of the serene sky.