His hands shaking, he put the brush down... ... and stared. There were no... he couldnt... It was... extraordinary. And it was his. Still unable to believe the vision before him, he looked away, almost in embarrassment, his eyes darting about the dim light of the studio, taking in the piles of still unfinished works: the landscapes, the still lifes, the abstracts, the... oh god, the portraits... They were all... He dared look at the canvas, still wet, on the easel. They were... while this... this was... His mind raced: he had to call the gallery, make an appointment, take it to them and — no! They had to come here to see it. They had to! It was only in the sad, grey environment of his studio could they truly appreciate the Herculean work now resting before him. It was so... different, so... How would he explain it? Then he realized: they would never believe this was his. Never. Too many times, they had quietly taken on his work, sold it for whatever they could get, then — out of pity (he knew it!) simply gave him whatever funds were made from the sale. He was their charity case, the artist they kept around to assuage the pangs of guilt they had to feel at the outrageous prices they charged for other people's work: huge, gaping studies in shades of red that would fill the entire wall of a boardroom or perhaps some post modern lobby... while his were consigned to the occasional decorator's showroom as a prop. But not this. Not this one. Almost daring, he looked at it again. This was... a masterpiece. There. He'd said it. The culmination of a lifetime of disappointment and failure. This was the work that would make his name... as an artist, as a creative, as... a human being. The form, the structure, the play of the light, the colour, all of it magically fell into place, a magnificent whole that so superseded its individual parts, while never neglecting them individually. It... Suddenly, fear washed over him like fresh linseed oil: what if he never painted anything like this, ever again? What if... Suddenly, he was looking at it his creation in absolute terror. He'd never be able to rise to this level, ever again. The structure was too complex, too subtle. The colours elusively danced away, laughing in tantalizing, mocking merriment at his increasing frustration. His fingers reached out to claw through the still wet oils: he would destroy it. Now. He would... But his hand stopped, a mere inch from the canvas. I cant do this, he wept. I just cant... The next morning, he rose from his cot and, before even having his meager breakfast, looked at the painting again. Its awe had not diminished during the night. With a sigh, he took it off the easel and leaned it against the wall, then set a freshly blocked canvas in its place. Picking up the brush, he steeled himself...