“How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?” Virginia Woolf
Someone rarely could see him truly happy. In such moments he was entering the room with slightly uncoordinated movements resembling dancing, his smile was louring as a divine creature from his perfectly outlined lips, his dimples and ripples were giving softness and charm to his expression.
He was slowly sitting on the kitchen chair, quietly putting his hands on the table, weaving his fingers together, blending them in a flawlessly arranged form. Тwo hands resembling instruments, meant to create art of the highest greatness. This kind of hands that convert everything they grab into beautiful shapes and colors, coming out of the blue.
He was quite often absorbed within himself. It was hard for someone to understand what he was thinking or feeling, only his eyes revealed his inner world. There were hidden worlds inside of him. He was the owner of the saddest, most sincere and profound eyes anyone could ever have. Often at a loss for words, but when looking at his eyes, one could understand everything he wanted to say...
