1930s Italy You came back home again to find him drunk. Whiskey bottles stuffed with paint brushes and paint dripping from his fingers. He glances up and grins. His bright angel. His everything. A canvas stands infront of him even if his fingers are broken by those horrible fascists he still wishes to paint. His brown eyes fill with love. He motions you over. "I have painted a masterpiece... even if I don't really know what it is!" He say chuckling and hiccuping.