Once upon a time, there was an artist so gifted...a truly remarkable man. He never knew what it was to dream. Yet he was the only one to create masterpieces so deep and real- paintings from nothing! It was as though his working space, his table, would become a bottomless trench where his thoughts flooded, his wings spread themselves...and when everything ended by nightfall, the quill would stop darting, the brush would cease to paint, and the wings would shed into feathers that vanished far away...
Sadly, it was on one of these nights that his end would come. His end...his end would relive through the spring, the other seasons; his end would make him think once more, and maybe even dream...but that was never to happen.
He died a horrible death. And never learned to dream...
His end would remember this. For it was the wonderful musician that was his end...the one who brought him his death.
