The noise of the city, the distant, silent disintegration of Robert Clarkson's universe, all of it dropped away to a steady, dull hum. In the studio, there was only the gentle swish of brushes across canvas, the constant scrape of a palette knife, and the mad, silent scream of a heart fighting to rip its way free of his chest.It was unplanned. The compulsion had seized him at dawn, less artistic than physical. He had emptied a new, large canvas, larger than he ever worked on, and placed it in the center of the room. He did not draw. He attacked. He began with the sea.It was not a peaceful sea. It was a boiling, elemental jumble of Prussian blue, viridian, and Payne's grey. He worked with a palette knife, slashing and scraping at the paint, building up thick, turbulent impastos that looked less like water than shattered slate and boiling ink. This was the world, he thought. This was the cold, cruel, indifferent fact of effect. This was the storm Harper had unleashed, the financial ab
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