[hr] [center][COLOR=PINK][b][h1]Moses Muller[/h1][/b][/COLOR][/center] [hr] [COLOR=GREEN]“ So, how’s it coming along, Muller?”[/COLOR] [COLOR=PINK]“ Nearly there,” [/COLOR] Mo murmured, chewing his tongue whilst his concentrated brow sweated beads of perspiration that slid down his forehead and onto his rubber-gas mask. He stopped depressing the plunger, bringing his coat of red gloss to a halt for a second to peel off the newspaper he’d overlaid onto the wall to protect the dried sections. He then set it down before reaching for a smaller can of ocean blue, spinning it in his hand, before The rhythm of the thin hissing colours and the peppy music conjoined with one another to form a melody that few could truly experience. The faint licks of misty paint in the humid night winds of Saint Celia obscured his vision just for a moment, powdery hues of red, yellow and light brown like a kaleidoscope. He was in his element. In these moments, he could finally forget about who he was and focus on the present. [COLOR=PINK]“ Just - ” [/COLOR] A splash of forest green. [COLOR=PINK]“ A little more….” [/COLOR] A little bit of orange-red for that finish…... [COLOR=PINK]“ There.” [/COLOR] Mo released his pressure off the plunger slowly before setting the can down beside him on the newspaper floor. He tore off his gas-mask and took in the spectacle of his creation. An simple rustic red, white and green tableau of a guy cooking pizza out of a wood oven, coloured smoke pouring out the bricked chimney like an old steam train. It was relatively simplistic, although, it wasn’t a simple piece of hodge-podge graffiti or some tribalistic toilet art painted in some obscure urban back-alley. He’d spent the majority of last night, sacrificing a pile of ideas to the bin before he finally found a diamond in the rough. He pulled off the paint-splattered gloves, careful to not stain his own hoodie before he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around slowly, unsure of what to expect, only to meet the wafting smell of melting mozzarella and the cherubic dimpled smile of Alfonso Rhombus. The eponymous owner of Rhombus’s, the oldest pizza parlor in Santa Celia, was standing right in front of him, looking at him with a kindly full-toothed grin. He was approaching his twilight years soon, judging by the balding grey roots growing out of the side of his head and the aged lines that sagged his cheeks. Yet, there was a kind of imperceptible energy to him, an indomitable spirit that pushed back against the clock like a seaside cliff. He was holding a pizza out towards him, gesturing toward the restaurant. Most likely offering him dinner. Mo began to subconsciously reach for his wallet, stopping as Rhombus shook his head and spoke. [COLOR=GREEN]“ Nah, consider it on the house. Besides, what you’re just done is payment enough. Now, you can have a taste of my art. ” [/COLOR] He motioned towards one of the empty wooden chair situated outside the entrance. [COLOR=GREEN]“ Sit down. Eat.” [/COLOR] [COLOR=PINK] “ I - “[/COLOR] Moses was in the beginnings of a polite refusal before his stomach growled. He looked down at the pizza and eyed it. The crust was cooked to a crusty light brown perfection and rolling towards the center of cheesy goodness was a spiral of red sauce interspersed with toppings of prosciutto, roasted green bell peppers and sliced olives. With a beleaguered sign, he sat down with Rhombus, grabbing a slice for himself and chewing on it slowly, Immediately, he could feel the hearty tones of the prosciutto followed by the spice of the peppers and the salty pang of olives. He made an internal note in his mind to come back here again because this was the best pizza that he’d managed to eat in years. He quickly devoured a slice before going for another, much to the amusement of Rhombus. [COLOR=GREEN]“ Beautiful,” [/COLOR]Rhombus was appraising his work slowly with his eyes.[COLOR=GREEN] “ In hindsight, I guess I should have paid you more.”[/COLOR] Mo swallowed a bite, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the sauce off his chin momentarily before continuing. [COLOR=PINK]“ Not about the money,” [/COLOR] Mo grunted, finishing off his slice and reaching slowly for another one, [COLOR=PINK] “ About the art. ” [/COLOR] They stayed silent for a while, bathing in the splendor and night-life of Santa Celia. Rhombus’s restaurant was located right in the south corner of a busy traffic junction, taxis, cars, buses and motorcycles all moving past each other like glowing schools of fish. Rhombus didn’t take a slice, giving a mysterious look towards him that was bordering on paternalistic. He had his fingers wringed together. [COLOR=GREEN]“ I’ve also heard about some murmurs on the streets. Some of the gangs….they ain’t too pleased about a guy like you. I mean, I saw some of the stuff that you tagged. It needed to be done but you’re attracting some unsavory people, get what I’m saying?” [/COLOR] Rhombus stopped at his last question, letting Mo process the words or possibly having a chance to reply to his comment. Mo was unconcerned, letting no visible expression escape him as he continued to chew and eat the pizza, non-plussed. [COLOR=GREEN] “ If you’re not careful, your art over there, “ [/COLOR] Rhombus pointed towards the now-dried mural, several onlookers taking a picture of it as if to make a point [COLOR=GREEN]“ - could endanger you. Heck, your art could even kill you. I know that you’re - Is something wrong, Muller?” [/COLOR] Mo suddenly reacted as if Rhombus had slapped him when he said the last sentence, eyes suddenly glazed over in memory. Mo’s knuckles were gripping the sides of his chair, knuckles white and his face ashen. He blinked several times before realising what he was doing and then, shied away from Rhombus’s face in embarrassment. [COLOR=PINK]“ N-no,” [/COLOR]He stuttered quietly, with a dry lisp before licking his lips. [COLOR=PINK]“ Can I get the rest of this to go?”[/COLOR] There was a pause before Mo heard the noise of a chair leg scratching against the concrete. There was the pat of a warm hand against his shoulder and the strong scent of the pizza travelled away, although it left a pungent aroma on the tabletop. As soon as the doorbell jingled, Mo collapsed into his chair and bristled, looking upwards at the night sky whilst simultaneously fumbling for his I-Pod. [i]Your art could kill you.[/i] He began to remember that night, even though he tried not to. His right hand began to spasm, in the phantom throes of holding a brush. A hand that shaped and borned a life that was never meant to be. The power to create life from nothing and yet, powerless to return it back from nothing. The red and yellow hotness of the pizza were beginning to crackle like a bon-fire in his mouth. The unrelenting, pounding yelling and screaming of the dead souls that festered in his head for months began to rise up again before he quashed them like they were persistent pests. Each breathe sharpened the world around him with increasing clarity as he shakily inserted the ear-buds into his ears and tried to forget everything. He was putting all of that behind him and was starting a life afresh. As a street artist. Not a god-damn Aritistonancer. The palm of his right hand still burned in regret. [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qju3FEcKTrw] [i]“I’ve lost all my pride. I’ve been to paradise. And out the other side. With no one to guide me. Torn apart by a fiery will inside. I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you………” [/i][/url]