This Starving Artist Thing is Getting Old

I must control my emotions; the brush strokes are getting ragged. Ragged as my nerves. I am owing on the rent for my studio; nay, I have obligations everywhere I turn. Faulkner will not be still about this money. He describes wrapping it up in the scarf in such minute detail I can see the scratches on the coins and creases in the bills. Ahhh, what I wouldn't do for the money.

I must get hold of myself -- I think back to the time when I was a younger man -- full of hope at the possibilities that lay before me. I was going to travel the continent and paint famous venues and people. However, the people and the places turned out to be my undoing. I tried to be seen in all the "right" places so all the "right" people would think it advantageous for me to paint them. Alas, the I became the instrument of my own undoing. Hosting wine parties, the occasional card party, lavish dinners . . . Before I knew what I was about, my "break of day" was noon or later -- I missed critical hours of natural light -- calling hours began to fall away as I feverishly tried to make up for lost time.

Hence, when Faulkner looked at the indifferently painted sketches, I cringed and was willing to give him what he fancied. Looking at those canvases reminded me of lost opportunities -- now I was staring at my largest lost opportunity. Had I only known about Faulkner's windfall I would have requested a far larger sum.

Hark -- I see an older gentleman staring at me. Something about his demeanor tells me that he has been looking this way for quite some time. Does he know me?? Do I owe him a sketch of his wife or daughter?? Is he observing to report to someone as to my whereabouts?? God, what I wouldn't give for a glass of wine to steady my hand. Wait -- I begin to think he is looking at Faulkner!! There is a certain emnity in his gaze. Providence!! This could be the chance I have been waiting for . . .