Gemotions

The stark white walls of the gallery seemed to close in around Marcus. His life, his *art* – all distilled into glossy pages without his consent. The book detailed his rise, his failures, the intimate details of the creative process. He felt a flush begin at his neck, spreading to his chest.

He moved to the window, the cool glass offering no comfort. He couldn't stop the internal tremor. The author had written about his passion with an intensity that seemed almost possessive.

He closed his eyes, the memory of a recent opening, and the flattering attention from an attractive journalist, suddenly replayed in his mind. He pushed away from the window, and his focus zeroed in on the biography. His lower lip found its way between his teeth.