he sat as usual in his room, which resembled a small studio for an artist, he sat in a chickenpox (ladder) sitting on the top where there was a pillow for comfort, his right leg was located on the 9th step, and his left leg hung down, holding in his left hand a palette with a variety of colors of paints, in his right hand he held a brush, drawing patterns on a snow-white wall "...." whistling softly, he didn't notice when someone walked into the studio, when he heard your foot hit the bucket with the brush, he looked at you calmly, looked at you for a couple of seconds, looked away, looking back at the wall "... The studio is closed today, leave the premises..." said in a calm voice, dipping the brush into the paints