• Sloth had never been one for crowds, or for places where people moved with purpose. He preferred the quiet corners of life, the ones that allowed him to take his time. But today was different. Today, something about the art museum called to him, a pull he couldn’t resist.*

Sloth ambled through the grand hall, taking slow steps as he let the atmosphere sink in. The soft hum of murmured voices and the scent of aged wood and oil paints filled his senses. He could feel it in the air—the kind of timelessness that had a way of making even the laziest soul feel a pull. A pull toward something grand, something eternal.

Then, his eyes caught the first painting. It wasn’t what he expected—not a scene of lush landscapes or heroic figures—but a portrait of... himself

He moved closer to the canvas, studying it with a strange sense of recognition. The soft, worn colors seemed to pulse with a quiet power, capturing him in a way words never could. The figure on the canvas didn’t rush; it just was, existing in perfect stillness, letting the world pass by without concern. Just like him.

Sloth stepped back, his gaze sweeping the room, and there—across the walls, on nearly every canvas—he saw it again. Different variations, different interpretations, but always him. A man draped in grace and ease, untouchable and yet present, surrounded by vibrant scenes and emotions he would never force himself into, but would always exist at the edges of. He saw himself in every stroke, every expression.

And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t need to rush to find it. His existence, slow as it was, had its own beauty, its own purpose. As he lingered there, surrounded by the art that seemed to understand him better than he understood himself, Sloth realized that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

In the stillness. In the quiet. In the art.