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immortalized) wrote2020-08-27 09:33 pm
immortalized) wrote2020-08-27 09:33 pm
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there's no sign of the morning comingโ
๐๐ฌ ๐ถ๐ฌ๐ฒ๐ฏ ๐ก๐ข๐ช๐ฌ๐ซ๐ฐ, ๐ก๐ฌ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ข๐ถ ๐ข๐ณ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฑ ๐ถ๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐ค๐ฌ?
๐๐ฅ๐ข๐ซ ๐ถ๐ฌ๐ฒ'๐ณ๐ข ๐ฑ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ข๐ก, ๐ก๐ฌ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ข๐ถ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ก๐ข, ๐ก๐ข๐ข๐ญ ๐ฆ๐ซ๐ฐ๐ฆ๐ก๐ข
โ๐ฐ ๐ฆ๐ฑ ๐ฐ๐ฌ๐ช๐ข๐ฌ๐ซ๐ข ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐๐ฑ ๐ถ๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐จ๐ซ๐ฌ๐ด
๐๐ฌ๐ฒ'๐ฏ๐ข ๐ง๐ฒ๐ฐ๐ฑ ๐ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ ๐ฑ๐ฒ๐ฏ๐ข, ๐ถ๐ฌ๐ฒ'๐ฏ๐ข ๐๐ซ ๐ฆ๐ช๐๐ค๐ข ๐ ๐๐ฒ๐ค๐ฅ๐ฑ ๐ฆ๐ซ ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ช๐ข
๐๐ข'๐ฏ๐ข ๐ ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ข, ๐ถ๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐๐ซ๐ก โ
๐๐ข'๐ฏ๐ข ๐ด๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ก๐ฐ ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐ ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ถ๐ช๐ข
thus cha-cha-slid rohan kishibe (into ambrose's dms)
Aside from Pink Dark Boy, there is a fine mix on display here at the local Morioh Art Museum. And Rohan is inspecting all of it...along with everyone else there. The sort of people who show up to a late-night art exhibit in a suburban town aren't the sort who show up to city affairs. He's already seen such varied people - gaggles of teenagers jeering behind their hands at tasteful nude paintings, older couples mostly sitting on benches to stare at one painting and then not inspecting much else until they can perch on the next bench halfway down the hall, other artists who prowl by their sculptures or 'living art' and demand the reactions of passersby.
But for the most part, it's quiet, if slightly eccentric. And while Rohan has been keenly observing everything for ideas - his sketchpad has only left his hands to hang at his hip a few times, while he's sipped drinks or signed the occasional autograph - he's yet to see any hint of the other reason he's here.
Or rather, he's seen far too many hints.
Jotaro had reported that there were rumors of a vampire in Japan, near Morioh itself. He'd suggested it might have felt drawn to Stand users - that their energies were inherently combative towards each other, that Stand users were the only humans aside from Hamon users that could pose any real threat to them. Ever since, Rohan has specifically rolled his eyes every time Koichi or his friends mention looking for them, has gone out of his way to announce that he has no reason to fear vampires considering his Stand's power...and has also spent every single evening watching his windows or prowling around with his camera.
He's yet to see more than just a handful of eccentric, lonely people who look suspicious but then still come out in broad daylight the next morning.
Thoughts of potential vampires never stray too far from his mind, but getting caught up in people-watching has a lot of other effects on Rohan. And as he catches some of the movement and shape of a woman pretending she isn't crying about bad news she's getting on a cellphone call, Rohan sees motion out of the corner of his eye. On reflex, he looks over.
It's another woman, this one wearing a bold and unusual shade of plum lipstick. It's too dark for Rohan to bother wearing himself - he looks a bit too dramatic even for his tastes with anything much darker than the green of his headbands - and impeccable yet very startling bright eyeshadow. Something shimmmering is spread across her cheekbones, and she's wearing a layered skirt with stars on it. The effect is, in a word, arresting.
And that's all before Rohan turns to watch and notices a little more - the way she swallows, and what it does to her throat.
An Adam's apple bobs, and Rohan's curious glance turns into a surprised stare. That's a man, dressed so completely and wholly as a woman as to make even Rohan doubt-- not his initial assessment, but how he would address them. Are they meant to be a woman, regardless of Adam's apple? Are they simply a man wearing a gauzy, layered skirt?
Rohan's own face and clothing defy enough social norms that he's well aware a combination of ingrained politeness from others, and his own wealth, are what shield him from particularly nasty comments. Not that he cares - he dresses this way for himself. Stomach exposed, eye shadow lightly but visibly applied, he can get away with a lot of eccentricities as an artist...and he would demand to get away with them even if he had less social standing.
...He shifts his hand further down his sketch pad's page, and begins sketching the way this person carries themselves down the hall. He makes zero attempt to hide the fact that he's doing so.
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Ambrose has been roaming it anew for some years now, has seen more than a decade of life in nights only. He never did make it so far as to see this land of the rising sun, ironic that he would never see such a quality to give it this reputation, still. Everything about Japan that makes it so beautifully unique can still be appreciated under moonlight.
He hears that Jotaro, that thug-turned-scientist, has just completed his thesis here in a disparate but bustling town โ and is swiftly questioned, when his quiet accolades paid are silently noted, for any knowledge behind the presence of his kind in the area. While he has come to meet a few fellow vampires between Europe, England, and New York that he calls home...Ambrose was regretfully lacking in anything of use.
No matter. His is a trip for his free time, not work โ while he is no stranger to Speedwagon, when they call on him. The theatre is in between seasons, and even still, he isn't not using his idle nights to survey for new inspiration.
Or, for tonight, dรฉcor. Ambrose is naturally drawn to art, but he reasons privately that he can make the visit to tonight's exhibit benefit his theatre; there is little more so splendid to him than to dress the lobby of his theatre in pieces from all these places in the world that he continues to see through the years, and while limited space, such as it is, is in constant battle with his bank account... Ambrose cannot refuse himself.
But he is selective, and painfully patient, and that latter trait of his has him roaming the space between exhibits as if...waiting for something. Or someone? Here and there, Ambrose scans the people in the room โ all with heartbeats, but it isn't with that sense that he uses to see for someone distantly kin to himself, which risks to turn him blind completely.
The thought of another vampire in the possible near vicinity has Ambrose distracted. Since his rousing ten years ago, he hasn't heard from, nor seen the one that made him. He can logically think of this as the longest streak of luck in the world, but luck is a limited resource. The longing fear has him looking for him, for gold-gilded locks of a cherub and the face of a hunting wolf...
And still knows he likely will never see him again.
He has no awareness of the man watching him in this space as he strolls up the displays of artwork, this section for media works more foreign to his palette but no less fascinating. The curators have been eager to announce that one of their own local celebrities is present with the newest of his cover displays for a serial series, and Ambrose gazes over a wall of magazine-sized, full-color drawings. The sharply-dressed character appears in dynamic poses, his design curious and unique. The text on the placards is in Japanese, and Ambrose is still very much learning the extent of kanji. Fortunately, it seems to be accompanied by hiragana translations.
"Pink Dark Boy..." Ambrose muses aloud, his voice rumbling low on a sauntering mouth, said aloud for himself but not wholly inaudible. It's so very different from anything he has seen, though the range of the arts has become so much larger than Ambrose ever knew before โ there's intrigue in his eye.
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The man in a dress, the woman, the figure โ Rohan sketches her for the energy there. It's a slow fascination that plays on her face, as if everything here is somehow new despite being something she clearly makes a habit of looking for. It's wonderful, it's exactly the sort of genuine, unfiltered reaction Rohan looks for.
And she lingers. It actually takes Rohan until he sees her painted lips form the sounds of Pink Dark Boy that he realizes what she's been looking at for the last several seconds.
He wasn't planning on introducing himself. He really doesn't do well with people โ there's plenty of reasons not to linger near his art all night, but not wanting to talk to spectators was one of them. But her intrigue in it is so raw and strange, and her look is so unique yet familiar, that Rohan finds he's coming over despite himself.
Wellโ no. Because he wants to...he just didn't expect to want to.
"You look like you're enjoying the artwork." He says, softly enough that he's clearly trying to avoid being overheard...by anyone who isn't the woman he just walked up beside. He holds his sketchbook towards himself, but not flush to his chest; it's clear there are drawings on it, even if only from the fragmented edge of the page that's visible.
He's watching her keenly, curiosity in his gaze, but it's the same type of curiosity he has for anything โ both in and outside of the norm.
...And perhaps coupled with a little bit more personal of an intrigue, for someone else who was born a man and is wearing eyeshadow, tonight in this building. As far as Rohan has seen...they're the only two.
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He finds this opening dialogue interesting, so Ambrose doesn't hide the receptiveness from his face when he turns to regard what stranger has chosen him to greet; Ambrose finds a fascinating-looking young man beside him, artfully dressed and atypically curated in his choices in look. Ambrose has been in many major cities to meet musicians and fashion designers, script writers and painters โ they don't all dress so expressively, but people who do are always more outwardly passionate. It's been a while since Ambrose has met someone like that.
"How can I not?" Ambrose speaks with the same reverent volume he might reserve for a cathedral in the night; his voice glides on a smooth cello-wood tone, but his energy expended tells that he is pitching his voice gently, lightly. The sense of relaxation auraed around him feels nearly languid. "It means the world to me, to be shown something made with utmost intention, something that that artist alone could only see until they brought their vision to reality. I enjoy little more in this world."
He sees the drawing pad, the pencil still in hand as he clasps the large sketching collection in the man's hands. The man may stand out in the open with it, but Ambrose knows better than to pry upon one's works in progress. An artist he all but outwardly proves to be โ between his strange hair, sketching pad, and presence at an art exhibit tonight. Ambrose must only rely on Occam's razor.
With the assumption made, the vampire glances at the space around them. "Do you have work on display here tonight?"
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But there's far too many people around right now for peeling open her face to leaf through the basics. Even if he thinks it would be useful, even if his need to seek out the unusual and discover its mundane facts means the idea is seeded instantly.
This woman speaks in a way that makes Rohan immediately think of him as a man instead, and perhaps he shouldn't - he should ask, or maybe he should just take a peak, carefully, and find out himself right now? - but the soothing baritone can't be mistaken for anything else. It's a shock to hear, and Rohan's surprise shows on his face. It's a fascinated stare, eyes widen and lips parting slightly. His earrings, left swinging when he turns his head to lean in closer, jangle very softly against his jaw.
She also speaks in a way that makes Rohan think of book characters. There's a depth of intention to it that most people rush through and miss. He is, in a simple and immediate sense, enraptured.
He shifts his pad further from his chest, but also turns more to face the woman, as he hastily makes a few notes to himself - in writing, this time - about what he's hearing. But-- he doesn't entirely ignore the question, either. "Yes." Simple, matter-of-fact. He looks to the display of his own work right beside them, the one that the woman was examining just moments ago. "These are mine."
Another thought, as he watches her instead of his own artwork - her accent is light but pretty, but it's more than noticeable enough. Who travels so far to visit an art gallery display in a small suburban town...? Gears, never entirely turned off, begin turning.
--Hmm. He was going to leave it there, but after a moment when he re-examines the plaque with his name and the art's description on it, Rohan adds, "In case you can't pronounce the kanji, my name is Rohan Kishibe. And you are?"
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His manner of dress tonight is one of those particularities; it's a new modern age to him, and ten years alone has seen a staggering social advancement. To him, matters of discrimination mean so much less to him than they used to, knowing mortality doesn't have him limited, and being able to see the fresco of life as a much larger, more vividly-detailed design before him. He'a gained success and richness by being what he is and doing what his heart still yearns for, despite its chronic and usual stillness.
But none of that wealth seems to exude from Ambrose himself, no beacon to make him glow with opulence from anywhere deeper than the makeup on his face or the gilded threading in his garment. Part of him, a significant one, is happy to materialize into this image, and it's clearly done with love and feeling... But there is something undeniably somber in him, still.
Even as the young man admits these designed serial covers are of his own making โ Ambrose still lights with surprise, the clear sense of a connection being made, and he looks at the images of Pink Dark Boy again. The style one portrays in says something about the artist, Ambrose has always believed. He wonders if he can divine something out of him from the choice in proportions or the stylized display, not knowing he is being considered by the artist to be divined from, himself.
Matter-of-fact, isn't he? Ambrose looks to him again, and his smile nearly looks like it could go wry at the bluntness of the introduction. "Are you accustomed to people being incapable for reading you for who you truly are?" A commentary on the name, on the conundrum of kanji reading...and a ham-fisted ominous meaning to double over it.
"Ambrose Sinclair." He's due to give his own identity over, and his chin tilts downward in a polite bow of his head, which comes more like a ponderous tilt. "I was just admiring how this character occurred to me as particularly fascinating... I hoped his mindful master might appear as equally interesting, were I to meet him.
"Instead, I think I underestimated him." Rohan appears more vividly than his already-exciting artwork, which has been displayed with lengths of accolades for his work, which suggests comes with more than just images, but also story writing, from what Ambrose can gather. When he looks at Rohan again, his smile is kinder.
Maybe a little warmer.
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...Which pronoun should he be using? At the very least, he gets a name very quickly. Ambrose Sinclair - is that an English name, or an American one? Or, what's the others, there's so many countries that speak English...
But before the name, there's an unexpected read of himself. It's a doublespeak that Rohan certainly wasn't expecting - Japanese name kanji are so varied, he's run into the very rare occasion that even his given name has thrown a person for a loop. Not that he wasn't making a point of it, but to hear that point redirected and made into that kind of suggestion...
Rohan's surprise pinches with offense, just a little, at the idea that he's some sort of outsider. Even if, if he's entirely honest, he is. It's not as if being an effeminate male who's great at drawing made him especially popular growing up.
(Being an instinctive dick to everyone he talks to didn't help, either.)
"You speak like the character in a story. Are you sure you need to inspect others' lives so much?" Said the biggest hypocrite in the room, apparently. Rohan's snarl of a response doesn't at all mean that he leaves the conversation, however - he's anchored in place by the praise and, more importantly, by the viewpoint of the artwork...and himself.
Ambrose smiles at him, and it reminds him of Koichi-kun just a little - warm, knowing. Like it sees something in other people they're not always aware of in themselves. Rohan swallows. "Forgive me, but I'm..." Falling back onto politeness to seem trustworthy is both instinct, and choice. He wants to know this next part, and he wants to know it not just for manga-related reasons. "Before we converse much further, I simply need to know if you're a man or a woman. I'd rather my thoughts about you reflected your reality." It's the closest a cis dude in the late 90s is probably going to get to 'I want to respect you, so please tell me your pronouns', and for all its clunky weight, it's politely sincere.
His mouth twitches, just a little. "And then afterwards, I promise I will happily answer any questions you have about the art style of Pink Dark Boy."
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But Ambrose can't feel an ache in them when they amuse him so, bending his lips almost inappropriately back, a chuckle swelling under his sternum. "Perhaps that is due to how often I study characters within their stories." Both to explain how he talks, and why he concerns himself with other people's lives. He could say something horribly clichรฉ, 'everyone is a character in a story, in their own and in someone else's,' and he wouldn't be incorrect...but it would be so gauche to say. At least, this choice of reply gives Rohan something about himself, after he plucked something away without permission, a blossom from a stem. He feels as though he should apologize...
He could, had he the time, but Rohan stops their entire trajectory in their conversation to request a clarification. Lately, people have stopped asking โ perhaps there is a building desensitization to the idea now, be it from the culture of the sexuality-queer, or from an expectation of performance artists such as himself, Ambrose cannot really say. When he presents himself in this way, he still sees the questions in people's eyes, intrigue mixing with wonder, and he knows the experience is for them if they keep it to themselves.
Thus, he keeps to his own self, focused on what it means to him to present himself this way.
Rohan asks him the most burning question one ever has for him when they see Ambrose this way. It isn't exactly banal, because nothing about this is excruciatingly boring. The difference here is the way the weight in Rohan's inquiry is balanced โ mindful, respectful. 'I'd rather my thoughts about you reflected your reality.'
Ambrose might say that he can't remember the last time someone spoke to him like this, except...he can, and he does, and it stills him, statuesque, for a small collection of heartbeats. For a moment, he's standing in Egypt, caught between the lapsed heat being slowly drank away by the vivid chill of it's sapphire evening, and in his ears murmurs a voice from the dead.
He smiles, breaking the ache in his ribs, focusing his eyes on the artist before him. "Among the many things that I am, a man is one of them." It would feel silly to establish, if he wasn't wearing a dress and a full face of makeup. Usually, people don't understand this answer, often questioning it, hoping for a more bizarre answer than what it is that his image seems to combat against. 'If you're a man, then, why do you dress like a woman?' Maybe Rohan doesn't intend to inquire, which inspires Ambrose all the more to say it in his own terms: "I don't let it define me โ I define the word for myself.
"Please, don't think that dressing like this is...the rule. Frequent, sometimes, but this is a...demonstration." Living art. Done only when inspired.
The next part that usually comes across is... "If it's unsettling, then Iโ" Ambrose is caught by himself, and he...laughs, shortly, an airy little sound through the smile split against his teeth.
"I can't apologize." And yet, he seems almost apologetic about that fact. He's been given too much acceptance, too much love for what he has given to other people, and given himself so much meaning for it that he can't insult it all by apologizing for this...
And looking at Rohan, he doesn't think he would have to atone for self-expression here.
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Oh. Oh. The way he's speaking. The way he acts like a character. His particular way of-- "You. You must be an actor." It's a momentary guess, and it surprises Rohan himself with it - usually Heaven's Door is such a convenient ability because it helps him, with something he's not quite so adept at himself. Curiosity doesn't grant him an immense ability to read people, and certainly not to get along with them well enough to gain access to their personal stories voluntarily. But this comes intuitively with the man's gait and conversation.
...Is he right? He must be...
But Ambrose answers the question, the one that his foreign name didn't answer on its own. Rohan listens raptly, because for all his selfish reasons for asking, he didn't ask to throw away this answer. It will be remembered, carefully guarded, used if it suits a story. And in the meantime, a surprise happens--
Rohan...likes it. On a personal level, he finds it lifts something inside of himself, a part he's always ignored because it wasn't part and parcel of his main focus in life. Decorating his own body is a passion, but it's not what he was put on earth to do. He does it entirely for himself, and so it's perhaps been easy - especially as he ages and lives alone, without even an editor to see in person much anymore - to just ignore the little subtle ways it's not understood by the vast majority of people.
That and he's barely past a teenager's tenacity to spit and fight against what they're told. He hasn't had too much time for the tiny hatreds to sink in and grow sores, yet. Rohan stares, and stares, and the sketchpad in his arms droops a little bit with his lapsing attention for it and instead his great focus on the man - because it is a man, like himself - in front of him. This is a connection he had no idea he was missing in his life. His mouth feels dry and he swallows reflexively.
And then he snaps his mouth shut and straightens his back, pulling his drawing pad closer to his chest once again. "You shouldn't ever apologize." He says, and he meant it to sound dismissive but dammit, dammit he sounds sincere as hell. There's an impassioned edge to his voice that's not unfamiliar in general, but it is for this topic. It's not something Rohan thinks of much - being single, it's almost easy to forget. But right now he feels undeniably...protective. And protected in turn, perhaps?
Is this what feeling like part of a group is like...?
"I suppose you really must be an actor, then. Even if this is one of your real faces." He clears his throat, looks down at his sketchpad a moment. "Well. It seems we're both men, then." Rohan never wants to share things about himself-- well. Not things that aren't relevant to his calling, to what he does. He feels abruptly self-conscious that he wants to ask the other, obvious follow-up question, find out if the other man's also--
He won't ask. It's not important, and he's not going to stoop to something so low and desperate. Sexuality's hardly a reason to start a friendship, anyway. His expression grows into nearly a pout as he wages a short but embarrassed, impassioned internal battle. "Did you have any questions?" Asked stiffly.
no subject
Ambrose's expression wants to sink down with a thoughtful sharpness...but he isn't given much time. Rohan flares with a confident stance in return for his almost-rude admission that he carry himself apologetically, and more pleasantly, made in Ambrose's justification. It's...protective, encouraging, with all of the qualities and all of the kindness of a cliff face. Fortunately, Ambrose is not losing his balance at the edge. They have only just met, yet something has been woven between them, some sort of cable linking them instantaneously, threaded with each other's intrigue for one another...and inherent understanding, unexpected as it is.
Even with the grand gesture made to him by a near stranger, Rohan folds back inward as soon as it's given out, like some feral animal retreating back into where he knows it is safe away from possible threats. The sketch book, large as a canvas and pulled halfway open from what Ambrose can gather, suggesting there must be a myriad of raw images and likenesses layered within, is pulled tighter to Rohan's chest. What lies on the pages that he feels momentarily secretive about?
Did he have any questions? Ambrose thinks he could list a hundred, if that sketch pad were in his own hands, pages filled with every fascinated thought Ambrose can currently feel dragging across his ankles about the young, living man.
"I suppose I could ask about the person in real life, as you suggested...
"But I think I want to hear you speak about your creation for a moment. What is the genre of this story you write?" An on-going, constantly developed story โ Ambrose can't help but exude respect for this newly-met artist. That sort of work isn't to be taken lightly, especially if the references to awards and notoriety is worth taking into account.
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He could be offended. Perhaps he would be, if there had been no other connection. But then again, perhaps not โ it says so much about this man that he's curious, and it spurs on the curiosity in Rohan. The urge to talk about his passion bubbles up and then, struck by the reminder that they seem to be on the same wavelength, he straightens up out of pride instead of defensiveness. "Psychological thriller. It has elements of other genres in it, of course โ you need that to flesh out any story. Horror, suspense...but also realistic characters. You can't have realism if you only show one type of emotion, one type of plot."
Rohan unwinds, just a little. Enough to take a step forward, closer to Ambrose...and closer to the wall of his own artwork. He looks at one particular colored spread of Pink Dark Boy leaping desperately over a ledge. "I'm inspired most to write about what moves me in real life, and tense moments seem to stick around the longest...and be the most worth sharing in fiction."
Which is not to say that Rohan Kishibe's life was particularly thrilling, suspenseful, or horrifying...before he got shot with an arrow, anyway. Maybe it's a little ironic that his life started to reflect his fictitious world even more closely than he could have imagined.
no subject
Rohan must have mastered the genre; there are small anecdotal placards remarking on the success and the focus of the serial story, how long it has been running for, how many issues it has been printed in. When Ambrose looks back at this artist, listening with absolute focus, his smile is...proud. The flourishing of celebration and acknowledgement is a pleasure to see for such a young man, seeing the combination of creativity and knife-edged precision. Rohan reminds him of the men who penned the scripts Ambrose was given to memorize, and the men that barked their adamant directions for they who stood elevated on the stage framed in blood-red velvet curtains. He has all the makings of a success. Rohan is as intelligent as he is passionate โ it's glaringly obvious as a fact โ and seems quite cerebral in the choice of his iconic artistry here.
"Perhaps all terror really happens in the mind โ perception is the key. Threats, in all truth, are relative." What threatens one person may not be considered dangerous to the next. Even common, over-arching dangers are not thrilling to all living beings as an exclusive rule. It makes Ambrose curious to know what he portrays as thrilling; he imagines the imagery must be fantastic.
"Is this Pink Dark Boy inspired by someone in particular? Or is he only a vehicle for the audience to navigate your thrilling stories within?" Striding now towards something personal, and how can Ambrose not, when Rohan insists again that his works are rooted in a foundation of realism? Where, from him, is this character born from?
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Rohan doesn't bask in what he's already done, because he's too busy obsessively figuring out the next part. And it's that laser focus on what's next that has him paying more attention to Ambrose than to what they're talking about, what's right next to them.
As he speaks, he lets the sketch pad fall further from his chest, no longer clinging to it protectively. A half-feral energy spurs him past self-consciousness.
At the edge of the page, a familiar man dressed and decorated like a woman can be just glimpsed...
"The answer is yes, of course. You need a vehicle for the audience, but I'veโ pulled from a variety of sources to craft him." Some of which Rohan barely remembered until the events of this summer, just barely passed. Autumn's begun, Kira is dead. Reimi's been dead for fifteen years.
Rohan hadn't realized how much he had just-barely remembered of her until he'd gone back to writing his manga after speaking with her and the cemetery keeper. "The answer of who he comes from isn't nearly as interesting as what's done with him, though. The source isn't as important as the output." Spoken with no small degree of dismissiveness.
At his core...Rohan just doesn't know how to express any of the emotions he feels about his own work. He'd rather talk technique or drive or maybe even admit his feverish need to create, but not the softer core of what happens between those pages.