[ It's rarely a long night for Timm - nights, he finds, are just shadows, elongated, and he thinks about them less as time signatures and more as a state of existence with a different set of rules. Here, all colours change, his work following suit as a consequence. It's all transitional. Doesn't matter how many hours the transformation takes, really, only that it does and that he has to change his approach along with it. Before sundown, he'd been working on a stretch of the dinning room wall, following the patterns of sunlight as they'd fallen through the windows lining the facade opposite.

Then, as the visible light shifted and stretched itself into nearly nothing at all, he'd gone for the windows instead.

He's currently working on the second window from the doorway, painting the glass in long, aborted strokes of sky blue acrylics. He's thinking about rivers and starlight, probably. It's hard to be exactly sure of these things. When Michel speaks from the door, he takes a long moment to register his words. Then, dragging its heels like a wet little kitty and possibly, yes, his mind is slightly tired, comes the awareness of another presence in the room, the wing of Michel's mansion, which has very quickly become an extension of Timm's personal space.

He smiles slightly and narrows his eyes, swatting a series of sharp, blue dots against the window. Some of the paint sprays him in the face, right along the bridge of his nose. ]

I slept with the birds, Michel. You mustn't blame me, nor them, for how early they start the day.

[ He twists and turns, his thin limbs flailing inelegantly as he searches for a way to seat himself in the window sill. He manages after a few seconds, balancing himself against the floor with one, long leg stretched out in front of him. He meets Michel's gaze with a quirked eyebrow. ]

You went right back to bed, didn't you?