Diabolic
Brandy Aniston, Barry Scott Pic(s)
The air in the studio was thick with the ghosts of creation, a heavy silence broken only by the soft sigh of settling paper. A single sheet lay exposed on the broad wooden table, its surface a pale, expectant landscape marred by a profound and telling void. Where there should have been a sprawling, dark galaxy of expression, only a faint, shimmering aura remained, a phantom limb of what was once a vibrant, living design. The memory of its scent, that rich, earthy perfume of night captured in a bottle, still clung to the air like a forgotten promise. My fingertips, tracing the empty space, recalled the slick, cool pressure of the nib as it had flowed, a liquid dance of control and surrender upon the page. The absence was a physical ache, a hollowed-out space that yearned for the weight and wetness of that profound blackness. It was as if the very soul of the drawing had been siphoned away, leaving behind only the delicate, papery skin and the lingering impression of passion spent. That vanished darkness seemed to whisper of intimate secrets shared in the quiet hours, a communion now broken. The emptiness itself became a tactile thing, a cool, smooth expanse that invited a new, desperate kind of touch to fill its aching void.
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