Dusk nights upon dreary bushfires. I wait holding a crystal glass, filled two thirds the colour of the sky. Your charcoal fingers knock on the door, leaving ash on oak. Avant-garde Miscreant is how you signed your works. My house is now a gilded frame. The floor of sketches, the walls of colour theory, the rafters made of pencil lead. Your hard lines, thick curves and feathered edges transfer as I drag my limbs. Tumbling onto a landscape of empty plains, the silence unites, broken only by the windchimes I hung outside the kitchen window when I was five. The gaunt earth yields to the horizon, which bends like a broken wrist. To the tinkling of childhood phantoms I wait. The violent clouds roll in, the dark honey colour of hope. Thunder breaks with the scent of vanilla.