I'm calm. I stare at the canvas, and my mind is blank.
 
 As I apply some base colors, I don't really know what I want to paint. Nothing is coming to mind. I feel nothing, empty. I look over to some of the other paintings I've done recently. They feel inferior, somehow. I don't think I can sell them, they're not good enough.
 
 I start to paint random shapes and colors. Painting isn't usually like this, I don't have to think about it this much. I have to concentrate to form shapes. I don't like this. I step back and look at it again, trying to clear my mind and form a new image. Nothing.
 
 As time goes by, I get more and more frustrated. This is a fake painting. It's a bunch of meaningless colors and shapes. Maybe others won't be able to tell, but I can.
 
 I shake my head and look at the canvas. Nothing.
 I start squint my eyes and focus. Nothing.
 I bang my head against the canvas, getting paint on my forehead. Nothing.
 
 Giving up, I fall backwards. I tilt my head up as far as I can, and I can see a little bit of the window. I keep it open most of the time to bring good lighting in. But it's raining outside. Maybe I need the sun. I think I've painted in the rain, though. And at night. I close my eyes, and try to relax. Clear my head, stop thinking. Focus on black.
 
 ***
 
 Suddenly, I feel like I've sprung out of unconsciousness. I hear the door open. Footsteps. As I open my eyes, I can see him hanging up his coat. He walks over to me and finds me on the floor. I think he's smiling.
 
 He looks over at my painting for a second.
 
 "Work in progress? It looks nice."
 
 Eat shit, Hisao.
 
 ***
 
 I wake up again. The rain has stopped, but it's in the middle of the night. I'm tired, but I need to do something. I roll out of bed, before I hear Hisao make a sound. Maybe I should have been quiet. I stand up again, and walk towards the canvas.
 
 My brush flows across the canvas. My eyes are droopy, but my mind is full of bright lights. It feels nice. Before I realize it, some time has past, and the canvas is full of my thoughts. This is a real painting. Without bothering to put the paints away, I drop my brush and slug back into bed. It's always difficult getting back under the blanket, but I manage. As my mind slowly begins to turn off, I feel satisfied.