Gemotions

He paced his small apartment. The critic's words – "unimaginative," "poorly executed," "a disgrace to the craft" – rang in his ears. He kicked a chair. He grabbed his coat, and left the apartment, walking for miles through the deserted streets. He didn't know where he was going.

He finally sat on a park bench. He stared blankly at the moon, usually a source of inspiration. The moon seemed indifferent to his suffering. He was lost.

He lit a cigarette, a rare indulgence, and smoked until the ember burned his fingers.