Each time i looked at my newest painting i couldn't help but awe in admiration.
It was shocking how a painting could age alongside it's creator.
Everyday the paint grew darker just like the beard growing on me.
The beautiful bright red paint turned shades deeper into a rich brown every time i passed by.
Not only was the illustration facsinating, the paint was rare and rich in pigment.
Every artist that set their gaze upon it asked me what kind of paint it was and where they could purchase it.
For some reason they always tried to run away when i showed them where i got it.
Too bad for them.
If they were chickens they could maybe have escaped without a head..?
