“Paper lined the floor. Scrolls and scrolls of them covering every inch of the mat. No, no, no. It wasn't right. Every pair of eyes he had painted looked back at him with disappointment.
“He was covered in ink. His pristine white robes, which never brushed any impurity, were stained. The feet, which carried him flawlessly around the world, barely causing a ripple, begged him to give up. The fingers, which played the gentle melody of someone's heart, were numb.
“He had woken up to this nightmare of forgetting his face. Time running its course and the law of nature being followed. He couldn't remember the colour his eyes took when they shone with mischieve, where his dimples formed when he laughed, or how his hair flowed with the wind.
None of them were right.
The brush slipped from his trembling fingers, paint splattering like blood. Those eyes which didn't shed a single tear under the most ruthless welt were spilling his woes.
And his knees accepted defeat.”
