Sometimes you get the feeling, that you are not worth anything. That all you have inside you is just a blank canvas in front. You have the pallet ready, filled with the basic colors, ready to paint what your heart desires. Maybe I paint a fountain, maybe a hill, maybe some people, with smiles and grins. You look at the canvas, you see it unfulfilled, you see the absurdness, and you look at your quill. Maybe I make an outline, with some hills and some fountains, or people laughing, sun shimmering through the mountains. Then you think of the picture, and you suddenly get depressed, for it not be the one that one set. How can I paint, with such a limited pallet, I must have it, much more expanded. You think of painting the perfect picture, but can thy paint, that is the question. Maybe the palet, maybe the image, maybe the brush and the quill. You think of it all, while the canvas remains empty, adding to your feeling.