James
Try to distract myself, I get on with some work. I’m not thinking straight. My brain isn’t working, so I simply start on some sketches, letting the ideas flow, letting my hands do the thinking for me.
It helps, I can lose myself in the work, the flow of pencil and charcoal on paper, the images welling up of their own accord. It doesn’t feel like an act of creation. I am simply a conduit for what is already there, needing only my own fingers and the right tools for the ideas materialize onto the paper.
Michael strolls in, then stands, hands in pockets, his face sombre. “Charlotte’s gone to bed, I’d say to give you and me some privacy. She knows this won't be settled without us talking. Have you scraped yourself off the ceiling enough that we can talk?”
I don’t look at him, keeping
