CHAPTER 8
Kaspian tore the canvas fabric from the roll. The ripping sound did little to sate his desire for destruction. Chaos consumed his room, tattered remains of the lake painting scattered about, and a dusting of feathers covered almost every surface. He swept a space clear on the floor to prepare his canvas. Typically he stretched his own canvas over frames crafted by his loving hands. When inspiration struck, he would spend days sketching, reworking, and thinking before paint ever met canvas.
Today he wasn’t a dreamer. Today he was filled with a primal need to channel the buzzing inside his chest. There were no thoughts, just impulses, a desire so great to find reason in the despair. He had to purge himself, pour paint as if it were his own bleeding soul. Or else he was likely to
