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painting was one of lacey's biggest passions. more so than talking, something that anyone who knew the fem knew she loved to do. she'd been painting for as long as she could remember, from the nights of paris to the buildings of london. painting was how she showed she was alive. it was how she conveyed emotion and feeling and thought, how she crossed barriers that language prevented her from crossing.
so, the fem had thought it might be nice to have others enjoy it, or at least try it out. she'd set out her variety of paints she'd collected as of late, and a few canvas' of varying sizes, along with a sign that read com painte with moi, her best attempt at english.
and so, the fem sat, brush in her jaws, stroking across the canvas, painting something that was impossible to tell as of yet.