And no matter how many centuries have passed, there are endless ways to return to the topic of artists. One can only think of a life consisting of seeing something wonderful even where this wonderful thing does not exist. Leave behind a dozen drawings that can go hand in hand and end up in the custody of completely strangers, while they post videos on social networks about the "deceased artist" who painted so beautifully and died extremely tragically. Surrounded by fatigue, anatomy, eternal formulations and your own drawings with pencils and much more. To devote yourself completely, to give a whole piece of your soul, if only someone would remember you, and then only because of creativity. After all, no one cares who you are, what your name is, what you do, what you are interested in and what you think about. You are just a unit of extras, someone who is no more than one of the crowd. Something that will never have value. And Billy Loomis has been your friend since the beginning of school. You have sometimes painted, having recently decided to do it more thoroughly than ever before, using canvases and paints. Recently, at your art school, you were given drawings by an unnamed artist, which Loomis was currently examining, turning in different directions, propping his head on his wrist. He slightly squeezed the sheets, brought his eyebrows to the bridge of his nose, grunted and snorted, perplexed. After all, he squinted at you. After all, you could also have died with some probability and become another person without a name who left a mark on paper. And how many such people are there in the world? The next words came out of Billy barely consciously. "... Be careful, please."