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He's an artist, still asleep under the quilt. Last night's shoes and clothes scattered, leaving a trail back to the kitchen. I've found his robe and with my coffee enter the studio just as the morning light slowly edges along the face of each canvass hanging on the wall.
Definitely talented. I study each one–oils, abstract, subtle. A common theme including this blank surface now drying on the easel, staples–notched along the sides, diagonal, haphazard.
dimming the lights
the bust of Caesar
back on the bookshelf