Lines of coal take form, again and again, on this coldbound evening as blackened fingers and wear reveal prints typically unseen. Beautiful and unique and hurricane lightning tattooed yellowed paper. It was untouched, like the charcoal, for ages as it sat in the corner underneath the easel gathering dust and cobwebs. It seems that the spiders have had a plentiful harvest this autumn, what a shame to rid them of their feast this month. It'll be winter soon and they're going to need it. What creation is permissible by destruction? Any? None?
Can I make up for it, I promise: I'll draw them a web and weave you into it. You and I and They: we'll all feast. We on Art and they on flesh. They'll never miss those material pleasures ever again. They'll never need to build or wait or **** or eat. We'll never need to either, not after this, this momentous occasion of focus and dedication when my arms and lamplit desk burn from satisfaction and our faces grimace at the completion of something so wonderful, on paper.