If it was not for the Sacred holy cross I wear around my neck, I would not be alive today.
It was Roswell Square in the evening. I had been anxiously waiting for a gentleman who had offered to sell me a second-hand Chevy at a throw away price if I drew him his portrait where he appeared less hairy and better built. Now here was a bargain an artist doesn’t get everyday; this was a job offer with some added prerequisites. I could really use a third hand car considering that I lived a dozen miles from the suburbs. The gentleman had kept me waiting for a long while, and as it normally would, an artist will lose himself in his thoughts. I was far too modern an artist, to remain involved in myself, so I in turn occupied myself in the surrounding. I had tried being an eccentric artist before, it hasn’t been much of a motivation. Drugs do occasionally keep your creativity following but it has extremely severe backlash. Love is an inflicting agent which has created so many artists in the past. My misfortune conspired against me to give me such an ugly Appearance that no tasteful beauty would be attracted to me. Thus my heart remained woefully deficient of the anguish of love as the world remained ignorant of the artistic mettle which I possessed but was never explored.
To my opposite sat a voluptuous brunette who looked like an angle’s shadow in the dusk. She had the physical features of a dancer, charm of an actress and personality of a millionaire. I had been noticing her for long. She had stolen some glances at me as well. She was reading some book in a foreign language, it wasn’t French I could tell for that was an artist’s language and I wan’t wholly unaware of its charm.