Born of Sunshine

She stood before the canvas with a bottle of bright paint in her hands.A bohemian dress flowed around her frail figure, giving her persona a hazy, summer strawberry feel. The dress was a tad too loose, but artists don't eat well enough these days. After several unsuccessful attempts, she had finally managed to pull her hair off her face with an old silk tie. The canvas was beckoning, as if it belonged to her hands. It begged her to fill it up, to ravage its' skin with her thoughts and make it whole; a being akin to the beauty in her minds eye. And she wanted to, she desperately wanted to make the canvas blindingly, brilliantly happy. She urgently needed to scatter that happiness of the days and nights gone by far across the universe. The day was at it's happiest hour and her heart was flying softly within a dream. A squirrel appeared on the window sill, it seemed to make the day brighter and her heart, lighter still. She was about to set the paint to canvas when the disturbing truth jarred her gentle nerves - all her brushes were at his house.