[agent44]

Growing weary of posing, she stepped from the platform, holding close her robe. Approaching his easel she saw with horror how he had maligned her. She struck him-not once but over and over again, until the stretchers could no longer support the canvas. He fell to the floor. But then her hands, ever so slowly, rose to her lips in recognition. The sight of him froze her still. The paint had darkened his hair and he wore an expression of time forgotten. Of a time long gone. She went to him and cradled him in her arms. And being the bastard that he was, he could only think, "Sargent was right. 'A portrait is a picture in which there is just a tiny little something not quite right about the mouth.' "

[dEATH.Tool]

~clap clap clap clap clap~

[shardik]

~snap snap snap snap snap~