From this writing prompt:
I didn’t expect him here, a glint of starshine between my eyes and my own comet to make a wish on.
He paints his dreams in the shadows of his studio, laid out from what the maze of his mind might look like: paint, canvas, india ink, brushes all a forest of protection, as if he thought angered Gods might try to strike him as punishment for not forming their divine likenesses first and foremost. Salvador Dali possesses his work, with surrealist curves and smooth bright colors, but the grey palor of worry seeps into his face. He knows now that my love for him isn’t enough for him to keep on creating…and I have not said one word.