beaulivres

His face is maddened by wrinkles as he pores over his image of me, my body, crazily drawing; I hear the scratching of his pencil, quick across the canvas. His face is old, but full of colour; his nose and cheeks are the tinted pastel red of certain cold November sunsets and his hair is forgetting its colour, turning to the universal blank canvas of white, a dirty snow white. Pendleton shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, skin stained with ink and colour like a patchwork; a tin of rolling tobacco nestled in his chest pocket. Django, old gypsy jazz, floats fuzzily out of his stereo from the back of the studio; the speakers crackle and coug