The oil pastel smeared over my jacket. I had to leave the bar in a hurry; Vincent said that some groupie was hunting after me, and would demand a painting at a low price. In a trice, I grabbed the notebook and stuffed the colors in their case.
But one color had no place; in my pocket, it meandered across the cloth, leaving a red mark in its wake.
Now on to the next bar, the next show, somewhere where I can find a moment of solitude and strong drink. Somewhere to think, to draw, to bring forth the images before my eyes as the ambient beats worm into my ears.