(no subject)
One of the biggest problems with being a artist, he always felt, was the lack of appreciation people gave your work. Sure, maybe his portraits sucked. Sure, maybe still life wasn't his thing. But, say the actual friut didn't look that good... no one could claim the bowl, the table, the chair, the background; no one could claim these things didn't look so real you could step into the scene. But no... Damn friut always blocked people from seeing his expertise.
He felt the need to get away from the mortals, for a while. Not even the movies were entertaining him, and he was, above all, a fan of the cinema. When it failed to hold his interest, the only thing left to do was visit home for a while, be it a month or a minute.
With a thought, me appeared next to his brother, startled to find him at some sort of gathering, and not in his cave, where he expected to be.
"Where the hell are you? are we?"
There was little subtlety.
He felt the need to get away from the mortals, for a while. Not even the movies were entertaining him, and he was, above all, a fan of the cinema. When it failed to hold his interest, the only thing left to do was visit home for a while, be it a month or a minute.
With a thought, me appeared next to his brother, startled to find him at some sort of gathering, and not in his cave, where he expected to be.
"Where the hell are you? are we?"
There was little subtlety.