He used violent strokes when he did his best work,

Throwing back his arms and flicking his wrists flinging vibrant red across the canvas.

The colors would dance in rhythm with each other, splattering in unique structures and shapes.

Beads of sweat would drip down the bridge of his up turned nose in requiem for the effort.

His eyes heated by the effort bent on the latest masterpiece, they burned holes into the canvas.

He braced his legs apart leaning into his strokes, and one after another they violated the canvas with tangible results.

Red was his favorite color and it encompassed itself in this piece, until finally not a trace of emptiness remained.

Stepping back he brushed sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he looked down at his crumbled canvas.

There I lay in a heap of red broken and battered, he wanted this piece to be his last.