Chapter Four : The Painting

Paranoid.

An impulse magnetised to the withered flower. A nature-morte of anxiety. I open a bag of soft paint tubes. The brush maniacally scratches the canvas. The colours stroke in chaos. Translucent shades of cerulean and gold intertwine in a unison.

Tediously cut out apple shapes are bleached and gathered in disorder. Resembling brush stokes, they form a painting on a body.

A flick of paint, a flick of desperation.

Unfinished canvas.

Heartbeat.