Place
He continued on the beaten path, riding down the winding lanes, torn up by travelers past. It was the only life he knew, since he could remember, never ceasing, never looking back, always facing forward.
He moved his brush as he always did, every stroke laying another gesture into his piece. His life bled onto the canvas with each wayward swipe, his emotions with each scratch, and his failures with each erasure.
He moved his brush, every stroke laying another modicum of emotion and feeling into his piece. His life bled onto the canvas with each wayward little flick, his emotions with each scratch, and his failures with each erasure.
I am upset. Not the regular everyday version of upset. Not the angry old man on his lawn level of upset. Not the child who dropped his ice cream upset. Not even livid elf-hating dwarf upset. I am...advanced upset.