Timidly at first.  Then with more fervent scribblings pen was put to paper.  Each word a stroke of brush on canvas that would illustrate how it should have been.  Chanting repeatedly and more strained with every breath he whispered the words that shaped his denial. Write it down make it real what you think what you feel.   His art would only become his reality on the landscape of a blank canvas.   Every pause of the pen became a painful reminder of the emptyness that shaped his words.  His only hope was to scribble his fantasy as quickly as possible so that once the fragments of his imagination came together into an inteligable plot his perception of reality would be reshaped with it to give his life new meaning.   

Every new paragraph held within its grasp the hope of his salvation.  However as with his miserable disposition his story always seemed to go downhill.   His hope would dwindle his plot would falter the  canvas that once held the promise of his new beginning became nothing but a reflection of his own muddled youth.

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