Her fingers tingle intermittently as she points the brush at each of the four corners of the canvas. As she does so, paint drips from its bristles, splashing her toes so it appears she’s coloured each of her nails a different shade of blue. The feeling of it as it slides over her flesh reminds her of ocean spray and the way the water laps her feet whenever she walks the shore late at night in search of a spiral staircase that might lead her to the moon. As a little girl, her father told her that he loved her to the moon and back when it was time for her to go to bed. If he didn’t, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Ever since, the image of the pale rock is the last thing she sees before she slips under. When there’s no sight of it in the sky, all she has to do is squint, and she sees it as clearly as she does his eyes. Remembering the way they once shone on her so brightly, a sudden twitch in her hand causes her to gasp as it passes over the middle-right of the canvas. She knows this is where she’s to begin her search—she’s sure of it. The next adventure. The next heartache. The next hopeful step on her way to some kind of enlightenment to make the nothingness that bit more bearable.