In order not to paint a picture of him never troubled picture-wise: Many blocks.

Urge to see. Find your eyes. Find them, not: See them. See through. Piece of wood. Makes a support. Gesso ground. Bone white. Dry. With same eyes search without calling. Search without calling, follow. Following the boy walking ahead looking back and smiling calling: Come, with conspiritorial motion of the hand. This, for example, he could see and then as now find further sequence blocked.

Fault of doubt, clearly. There is what he wants, sees it. Himself want it. Picture of a thing. Picture is a thing. Can’t have thing, have picture. Wants the thing. Can’t have the thing. Time in the world asks, Still want the picture? Time often that. Hours blankly eyeing picture sketched in. Watching himslf sinking. Sinking among his own shit. Not quite shit. Swallowed in by not-quite-real-shit. Never forget that day, moment, one point in a gradual process. First awareness: Turds have turned to food. Fucking old idiot trusted himself so zealously, so began to eat the turds. Boy shit wouldn’t you know. Pupil’s shit. Sweeter. Angelo saw the old man’s mistake, but how reawake the sense of dirt, of disgust? Leave him happy. Old Shitface, if it kills him it kills him. Some funny life this.