Cursing her mother’s name, she swipes the brush as if she were slicing a razor across the throat of one of the ogres outside who had heckled her in the mist. Watching in awe as the paint flies off the bristles, it reminds her of cum shooting from a dick, or a comet flashing through the void of space, like Hale-Bopp, or Halley. Holding her breath, she grits her teeth; partly in anticipation of impact, and also because she’s thinking of the lowly ones hanging around the studios, and how she can still smell them even though they’re so far from her nose. She smells their unintelligent desperation, and she smells their naughty bits—especially their naughty bits. Even in this weather, they reek of piss and stale sweat poorly masked by a heavy dousing of cheap aftershave—the kind you find in cheap supermarkets next to the expensive shit looking all sorry and second best. Shaking the thought from her head, she knows that as soon as the paint hits the canvas, it won’t just be a canvas; it’ll be transformed into an entity in of itself. She’s experienced this moment a thousand times before, and yet it feels different every time. Like kissing the lips of a stranger, or rushing out into the middle of a busy road, not knowing if it’s going to be your lucky day or not trying to get to the other side. Watching with a greedy, hungry sneer on her lips, the blobs of paint rotate like distant planets around a star named after some mythical Greek god. She knows nothing of these gods, but their history is sacred, the same as all history, and as soon as the paint reaches the canvas, another story will begin. More than likely it won’t change her life. There’s a chance it might not even change the outcome of the night, but the promise of possibility is as real to her as the breath in her lungs.