Some things in life don't have to be sweeter than candy, nor do they need to be.
As a child, he remembered amidst the tumbling chaos that comprised even his early life, he had liked to paint. Grasp the ungainly flaking tubes and tubs between chubby fists still lacking in the well trained dexterity of experience, cradle the comically large paintbrushes, and have at 'er. Nonsensical images, unimpressive in every aspect, children's murals composed in innocence as much as in cheap paints that ran too much, and clumped, but was wonderful because you knew no better. They came to life under smeared hands, dismissed just as easily by a distracted brain when faced with another pursuit, any other pursuit.
Distractions were easy, probable, normal. Painting time was the same through every worn out teacher, in each slightly shabby classroom, with the numerous frayed plastic brushes, usually bearing small teeth marks looking impossibly big on the handles. Distractions were easy, holding no real consequence. The sickly tang of industrial cleaning agents always hung like a blanket of accomplishment the morning after, even through the heavy scent, the unmistakable warmth, genuine, of pastels and the chemical rightness of diluted acrylic was a grounding agent. Of course, he hardly knew the concept of anything with stable implied within it, but it was appreciated all the same, even if the specific terminology of it went unacknowledged.
As a child, he liked painting. He did not love it, or aspire to be an awesome painter dude as his Dean sometimes suggested to break the silence with during bath time when discovering an errant paint fleck in an obscure place, he just liked it enough to refrain from gnawing on the brushes. Not enough, however, to stop him from tasting the paints just once. Just once was plenty. It wasn't unpleasant, it didn't taste like pie, or greasy burgers, spaghettio's, or even scratchy sheets. It was just the taste of paint. Hardly sweet like the stale candy, brought back by a grimy unsmiling John after weeks of just Dean, and the sightless windows covered always with balding drapes, and then they'd be packing up, moving on with absolutely no room for distraction, probability, or what every other nameless kid seemed to have.
A long drive that was invariably too hot, followed by another cheap room with more scratchy sheets, into another slightly shabby classroom and the smell of paint that wasn't cigarette smoke, or gasoline, or gun oil or burnt coffee. It wasn't sweet like candy, it would never be.
As a child he liked painting. It was good.