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"I am Pablo Picasso"
My arms and neck are stiff from holding this guitar. The only slight movement conspicuous is my breath barely gasping and my blistered fingertips falling across the thick chords.
My music- it comes out in a whisper, though rings loud in my ancient ears. It is my breath. Perhaps that is all.
When people stop and grimace- their eyes heavy with pity- I wiggle my toes a little, so they know I am there. Children yell, "Picasso, Picasso!" but were quickly hushed- passerby's knowing I had nothing left to give.
This was perpetual. My eyes sagged from immutable repetition.
Until this melancholy man, almost as sad as I was, looked upon me with the keenest interest. There was no pity in his eyes- nothing but accepting intrique.
A smile pulled at his lips-encouraging me. His neck cocked to the same side as mine, as if reminiscing in the past. Perhaps, I was looking upon the face of my future.
My neck twitched with curiosity- not powerful enough to move. I wondered when he'd soon realize what he was looking at was nothing but blue.
With eyes cast downward, I felt brush strokes against a rough canvas. My arm fell numb of music.
My sight was no longer an ability of mine, but an instinct. It came along with hearing- feeling.
And so I listened, and felt those strokes against the peppered stubble scattered across my jaw. With every last brush against the canvas, I heard it: he was painting me- in the hour of my death.
Picasso was scribbled in the corner.