Gemotions

The artist's studio smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. He stood before his canvas, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The room was a mess, canvases stacked against the walls, paint tubes strewn across the floor. He'd poured his heart into this painting, a swirling vortex of color and emotion. And then, at the gallery, there it was.

It was a perfect mirror, the same technique, the same palette, the same unsettling feeling that had driven him to create in the first place. He didn’t feel the expected rage or disbelief. Just... a kind of hollowness.

The gallery owner, a Mr. Evans, walked over, smiling. "Remarkable, isn't it? Synchronicity at its finest!" The artist simply nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor. He wanted to go home. He wanted to lie down.