2005-11-03 Writing: He stood behind the window, looking out at the pale grey clouds gush across the treeline. His eyes . . .

He stood behind the window, looking out at the pale grey clouds gush across the treeline. His eyes reflected back the same sad pale grey, drawing in the light from the scene as if sucking the life from someone with no will left to live. He turned, and surveyed his sterile home, the lines where wall-meets-wall the only distinguishing marks in and otherwise featureless room. Him, a chair, a desk. There was nothing else, for nothing else was needed.

He walked across to the chair, tossed it back carelessly then sat. He opened a drawer and took out an artist’s sketchpad and a number of pencils. Slowly yet with skill, he began to draw.

Outside, the scenery changed………..

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