[ In goes the croissant, finally, and the juice as well. Timm leans back in his chair a little, his old joints creaking in protest - it's been a long night, a long evening leading into it. Authentic living, he thinks, is an overrated concept. Extremely overrated. Look at him, living authentically. Look at that boy of Michel's, the one who's run away to live with someone who wouldn't know authenticity if it fucked him up the nostrils. No, it's not about that at all. Michel has to know, doesn't he, that taking the beatings is what cripples men and women and everything in between. It's what makes you walk like you've forgotten how to stand. Inspirational. Pah.

With a huff, Timm shakes his head and allows the other man to change the subject. He finishes his porridge and sets the bowl down carefully before he points towards the wall opposite the painted window with one, limp-looking wrist. ]

I've told you before - what you call a grey sky, I call an ocean. Transpose it onto flat surfaces and it changes its shape almost without any assistance at all.

[ The wall is painted in shades of grey. The brush and the shadows falling in with the light from outside have decided the shapes - circular, for the most part, dark and stormy near the center and foamy-white around the edges. There are many circles, bubbles, he thinks, the largest big enough to cover half the height of the wall, the smallest the sizes of hands, fingers, toes. Eyes. The ocean, the clouds, watching. With the morning light falling in through the painted window dancing across the waves, it's almost as if the surface is blinking back at them, at the sun.

In reality, of course, the light is getting swallowed. ]

I may visit the lake, later, for inspiration. Perhaps you'll come along.