He needed a canvas. And some paints.
He bit his lip.
He turned on the spot, once again just seeing everything in the circular room.
It wasn't the strange clothes he saw.
It wasn't the little devices which people were constantly drawing from pockets.
It wasn't the hairstyles. Or the mannerisms.
The people might not have been there at all.
It was just him and the paintings.
The paintings, such effort, such pain. But such joy too. Such accomplishment.
He needed a canvas. And some paints.
They were framed with the most delicate of frames.
The descriptions next to them. The flattering words, the admiring undertone.
The warmth of the room, the celebratory air. The smell of rich knowledge and achievement.
He breathed shakily. A strange flutter in his stomach, or maybe his heart.
He felt like he'd swallowed paint himself, his mouth caked and dry.
His fingers itched for a brush.
His eyes began stinging. No. Not here.
It was too late.
The first tears were already falling, his face crumpling along with it.
No.
He needed to paint. To paints his feelings and emotions into something before he lost them. He needed to express his feelings into something creative before they escaped.
He needed a canvas. And some paints.