The Muse

He was staring at the wall continuously, brushing his fingertips past the smooth surface, glaring at it constantly so much so that it seemed like he looked down at the wall. The wall was so beautiful, no scars, next to perfect paint and a smooth surface, smoother than anything else. It could be a really good muse and it indeed was for him. All the credit for his work went to the wall. The wall of perfection. The wall that made him write. The wall that made him love. The wall that never made a single complaint. It was all beautiful. But what beauty does remain forever?

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