Open Post is Open
On the not exactly far and really quite fathomable reaches of London, there was a Doctor, one of the many that were cropping up, sitting in a chair that was laid out on a lawn owned by someone he most likely didn't know and most likely didn't care about. His hands were moving restlessly over the sketchbook in his hand, flowing wide in large, harsh strokes as the pen he was holding let out a line of ink to the same effect.
He was drawing, although he was drawing less like an artist and more like a man who was desperate to get the images out of his mind.
Occasionally he would stop in the mid-stroke and rip the sheaf out as though it was just part of the whole process, crumpling it up and throwing it either into the small but burgeoning pile next to him, or at a passing car, which would then usually skid and roll a window down to shout or make rude gestures, both of which would go unnoticed due to the fact that he would have already started drawing again.
Landscapes dug themselves into the fresh white canvas, precise, immaculate, and vivid.
He was drawing, although he was drawing less like an artist and more like a man who was desperate to get the images out of his mind.
Occasionally he would stop in the mid-stroke and rip the sheaf out as though it was just part of the whole process, crumpling it up and throwing it either into the small but burgeoning pile next to him, or at a passing car, which would then usually skid and roll a window down to shout or make rude gestures, both of which would go unnoticed due to the fact that he would have already started drawing again.
Landscapes dug themselves into the fresh white canvas, precise, immaculate, and vivid.