/lit/ - Literature

There was a painter who lived in 502. He called the apartment his studio but he knew it was just an apartment. The way he saw it, you couldn't be a painter without a studio. You also couldn't be a painter without smoking cigarettes, so he would buy cigarettes at the corner store and smoke them as he worked. He found them bitter. Once, the painter had the novel idea that perhaps the cigarettes were really smoking him, but when he tried to paint that idea the canvas became a brown mess and the painter gave up. On today, the third of May, the painter was leaving his apartment to go purchase cigarettes. He peered over the balcony on his way to the stairs down and saw someone lying on the courtyard's cement. It was the old man; it always was the old man. The painter had the novel idea that perhaps the old man was lying not on the cement but with it, and decided that he would try to portray that idea in a painting. But you couldn't be a painter without smoking cigarettes, so he continued to the corner store.