Gemotions

He slammed the sketchbook shut, the sound echoing in the cavernous warehouse. The air hung thick with the scent of turpentine and forgotten dreams. Liam ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a cascade of charcoal dust. The silence pressed down on him, suffocating. He craved the open road, the wind whipping through his hair, the endless horizon. This city, this studio, felt like a cage. He needed to *move*. His phone buzzed, a jarring intrusion. A friend had tagged him in a post. A tattoo. His geometric design, now a permanent fixture on someone’s upper arm.