Grave and undisturbed, he layed is brush on the portraits he was commissioned by the rich and the vain that looked forward on cheating death. And with infinite patience, he soothed the grotesque underlying expressions that greed and ambition seemed to imprint into their heads.

Those that had in life something to boast for, money or fame or acceptance, those fortunate few that looked down on the rest us, all seeked him and in search of his favours. For his talent they knew had no rival and they could not settle for less.

He earned his life as liar, or so he would feel in his bed, because that was the only talent he had to sell.

That was the personal weight he carried on his cursed soul and everything else in his life had the stench of his clients gold. In vain he had tried to appease the guilt and remorse he would feel, he was searching for something that eased the misfortune that led to this aching silence in the hours spent on his gruesome work. And this craving, craving for more!
Buried by the life expired, tightening the noose...