Gemotions

He’d lost track of the hours he’d been wandering. The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked window of the tattoo parlor, a kaleidoscope of false colors. His painting – *his* very specific, meticulously planned landscape – was now etched forever on a stranger's bicep. A lump formed in his throat, a physical manifestation of the upset in his stomach. He felt a desperate urge to touch the image, to feel it, to verify its existence. He took a staggering step forward, and then another, the floor tilting beneath his feet. "Excuse me," he mumbled, his voice a cracked whisper.