This is a story, entirely fictional, of a young boy who thought he was following his dreams.
Sam Quinn, a young aspiring artist, moved to the city. He did not visit the sites, he did not see the Queen, he simply stayed in his attic studio flat and painted.
He had forgotten time. The only indicators of the days passed were the scarcity of clean socks in his drawer and the wall of free newspapers blocking the front door. Sam Quinn decided it was time to leave the house.
He walked up and down Gallery Street and visited gallery after gallery, trying to get his work exhibited.
But he was laughed out the door every time.
Filled with grief and remorse, Sam Quinn returned to his attic flat and did the only thing he could do. He painted. He painted and painted in such a frenzy that he broke his paintbrush.
And cut his hand.
View original post 299 more words