His intense yet soft brown eyes stared at the canvas infront of him. His muscular arms were simply an illusion to his soft touch. With pencil in hand, the graphite delecately touched the canvas. With the mind of a poet, and the gentle hands of a watch-maker, a beautiful detailed picture began to slowly become visible. His deep gaze was set on the detailed sketched infront of him. Yet, there was something special about his hands. Almost unable to explain. His dry fingers covered in cracks, were covered also with dry clay and paint. It was as if they were living things, like they had created pictures and stories no one else could. No one could ever understand the conplexity of the artist's hand.