crimsonkitty
The bottle opener slips, slices his finger open.
"Shit shit shit," he yelps, sucking at the cut. "Why this why anything."
"You okay?"
"Fuck everything."
"Guess not."
The painter paints in greens and blues and reds. He stands at the open window and takes no notice of the goings on around him. He looks only on the creations of his mind and his aching wrist. The painter goes on through the night until the light of the candles burn before him.