with just a slice of cheese, a blank canvas and pages of your novel-in-progress scattered everywhere. the scent of turpentine greets your nose like some expensive perfume. this is your expensive perfume. this is the scent you carry as you walk into the world that you hate. oil paints smeared onto your sleeves unwashed, liberated. ink stains on the palms of your hands remind you of the sentence that was just not right. the only sound you can hear is the growling of your stomach.
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