Gemotions

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. John stretched, a yawn escaping him, and realized he had been sitting in the same spot for hours. He looked at the half-finished painting on his easel; it was a testament to his lack of focus.

Across the street, Mrs. Peterson's house was being transformed. The rhythmic thud of a nail gun broke the silence. A restlessness stirred within him, a need for some kind of stimulation. He was desperate for a change. He put down his paintbrush. Maybe a walk, just to see what was happening.