Again and again, with every stroke, you felt the agony of the artist.

Your hand betrayed you, each line you drew felt like an echo of your wounded soul. Hours of work, trying to capture your art, to depict your fears, and yet they slipped away like ungraspable shadows.

“The second one looks better,” a voice whispered from the doorway. “Well, at least from my point of view.”

You were an artist with a heart lacerated by the eternal struggle for perfection, and that pain never left you.