With the thud of the dry tree branch, all went squish, fuzz, red, black, silent. With the thwack of a branch another chapter closed. No more would the carved life continue to be revealed. It was back to twisting in the wind; a tattered wind sock with no true direction. He was not the only one to fall that day. Those he had grown close to over the past months had suffered similar if not worse fates. A triage of broken lives and dreams surrounded him. The not as unlucky tended to the truly unfortunate. What once had been a small thriving Artist camp was no more. Yurts, and tents turned to rags and ash. Tortured canvas shredded and broken as if attacked by a hundred painters in a petulant fit. The blurred filth and destruction presented itself to his one good eye. Images of the past and signs of the future, but nowhere her.