The walls of the basilica were slowly and painfully crushing Vittorino and you watched every unbearable second with bound hands. You could do nothing but stare and bear him crumbling before you.

Vittorino sits at his canvas, twirling a paint brush between thin gloved fingers idly, deadpan stare at the white streaks of paint. The picture, a painting of rabbits and grotesque imagery- never shocked you. It was simply how Vittorino was. Strange, confusing, erratic— intangible.