The symphony of a brush against a canvas paired with the scratch of pen on paper spoke volumes in and of itself. Your eyes happen to catch his as he looks up to examine you, and a smile curls on both your lips and his.

Your lover and your muse, Albedo, stood behind the easel, devoted to dipping your features onto the slate before him, each swipe of his hand adding another attribute of his beloved. Meanwhile, yours was busy building a picture from scratch with words.

“What are you writing about today, my love?” He inquires, an almost ethereal aura about him. You could dedicate book after book to his grace.