Pen scritched on paper, each line carefully drawn with the care that the artist showed no other object in this world. With every stroke, the artist added detail, or the hint of detail, so true to life, that it seemed to breathe on the page.
“It won’t be good enough.” The subject of her art rasped. She didn’t answer, taking time to sketch the curve of a cheekbone. “It won’t work.” It mocked.
She paused then, her face, which had been a passive mask as perfectly placid as any stone bust, suddenly broke into a snarl. Wordlessly she crumpled her beautiful sketch and threw it at her tormentor. It landed amidst the bones, disturbing a spider that had made its home in the desiccated ribcage. Slowly, the artist regained control of her breathing and began to sketch again, ignoring the hundreds of similarly wadded pieces of paper lying around her.