Studio

The palette had no place left for putting colors color upon color, colors that had already turned gray, yet the smell of their oil could still be sensed. The painting, too, seemed to have dried. He ran a hand over it when he touched its texture, it felt good. The atmosphere of the studio was stuffy and tired. A long time had passed since his last presence here. There was a time when his writer friend would sit for hours in his studio and write in the afternoons they would drink coffee together, watch each other in silence, and steal their gazes away from one another. He had grown tired of this repetition and decided not to go to the studio anymore and he didn't. The house had become a prison for him he would sit alone for hours without doing anything. Now months had passed, and today he had returned here. His gaze went a little farther a coffee cup, steam rising from it, was on the