The master was stalking along the rows of studious persons, their minds bent and shoulders arched artistically like the paint strokes. The softness of his presence behind them edged into their reality, building a comfort-fraught pressure that gave them satisfaction.

James hummed beside me. The colours ran into his tune, and there appeared a discernible image of man. The muscles, the lighting, the sweat upon bare flesh – yes, I admired man. My eye caught James’ as he gave an understanding flick of his fringe. I grinned.

The master approached my pedestal, his ageing eyes tapping into the very source of my creativity, sorting the valuable from the invaluable. My line of thought had diminished, the first burst I had invested into my image of god trailing in the grey mix of paint.

“You.” He gestured to me, his soft scraggly forefinger outreached within centimetres, his warm rasping breath hitting the nape of my neck.

“Nil admirari. Non est ad astra mollis e terris via,” His words rolled into the room.