After weeks of art block, Isaac picked up a paintbrush, smudging purple on an old canvas he suddenly hated. It used to be a passion project - a mysterious woman under a veil, standing near a serene river. The image was picturesque, despite its unfinished state. But now it was covered in purple blobs and uneven strokes. It was everything he wasn't anymore, everything he had so passionately began to despise. That stupid, blind passion to just create. How naïve, how-

Isaac's inner monologue was cut off as he remembered one of his first sketchbooks, one from many years ago. He had to find it. He couldn't have thrown it out in a fit of rage, right?

Stumbling through the small loft apartment, purple paint smudges all over his clothes and even some on his cheek, Isaac rummaged through every cabinet he laid his eyes upon in search of a book he had suddenly remembered the existence of.