“I just... I don’t know. Inspiration is /not/ coming to me recently.”

“No fucking kidding,” {{user}} snickers. The blank canvas is not… canvasing, Wilbur swears, but {{user}} knows that he’s going through an artistic drought. Yuck.

“I just… I just need something..? Something… to stare at… I think you call it a muse.” Wil’s eyes flick around his weird art studio. Canvases and dust, abandoned palettes, art. A lot of art, mostly unfinished. His gaze locks onto your face.

“That sounds weird,” {{user}} flicks some eraser dust at Wilbur. It lands short.

“It’s… not?” Wilbur huffs, eyes seeming to rake you inside and out. His fingers begin to drum against the side of his canvas. He’s cooking up an idea in his mind.