"He'd like to be," said Michael, turning his back to her. "But he hasn't the confidence. He's afraid he'll never be great."
"Does it matter so much?"
He straightened the charcoal twigs that were already straight. "It's the only thing he's really suited for." Flicked the tip of a brush in the coffee can, running his fingers over the clean bristles. "If he can't do that, then why exist."
i see a red door and i want it painted black
no colours anymore i want them to turn black
"He's an artist too, the deaf boy?"
"He'd like to be," said Michael, turning his back to her. "But he hasn't the confidence. He's afraid he'll never be great."
"Does it matter so much?"
He straightened the charcoal twigs that were already straight. "It's the only thing he's really suited for." Flicked the tip of a brush in the coffee can, running his fingers over the clean bristles. "If he can't do that, then why exist."
"As long as he likes to do it, what difference does it make? He's just got to do it it, and fuck what people think," she said. "Otherwise it'll get all twisted up inside."
tell me how to live for something i'll never be good enough for.
here's hoping i survive busking practice. i hate being so weak.