Wishing he had picked up a smoking habit at some point, his fingers fiddled the ivories of an ethereal piano while the caffeine hijacking ran its course. The blank canvas, as it had for hours, stayed antagonistically white. Nothing of an oil base would do, could sufficiently express the neon genius waiting to explode from his fingers. Only pigments comprised of star dust and the blood of J.F.K. would aptly illustrate the brilliance soon to surface.
An image is all that delayed action. An image, any fucking design at all with which to vandalize such a pretentious stretch of fabric.
The inside of his thumb, white and cracked, began to sting from the constant irritation of its index. Fratricide at an extremital level, his hands would cannibalize each other if not put to work soon. The individual canvas fibers, recently coated with gesso, ticked away at a silent timer.
So inspired yet so blind.