Elenion Aura
Two Thousand Club
MILO NAGISA
SCENE:
The Guy Who Wrote “Art Is In The Eye Of The Beholder” Probably Did It On The Toilet
TIME:
May 3rd, 2022 || Pre-Arc 3
LOCATION:
South District
PARTICIPANTS:
Tak, Milo
THE GUY WHO WROTE “ART IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER” PROBABLY DID IT ON THE TOILET
Milo awoke early that morning, the sun barely cresting the horizon, casting the first golden rays through the sheer curtains of his old bedroom as the soft rustling of leaves outside his window mixed with the distant chirping of birds. He sat up, fishing his phone out from underneath his pillow. He flicked up the lock screen that displayed an image of "The Whispering Storm," one of Barker's most prolific pieces, and stared at the time.
The clock read 6:05 am.
Milo sighed. He threw off the cover and stretched both arms overhead, then stifled a yawn with his palm. Today was the day he'd been preparing for. The familiar sounds of the city below trickled in: the distant hum of traffic and the faint, intermittent cries of seagulls from the nearby marina. He eased himself out of bed, his body still heavy with sleep, and padded barefoot across the cool, polished floor. The house was already empty—his parents gone, off to parts unknown before he'd risen. No surprises so far.
He began his morning routine, savoring the small, familiar rituals.
He retrieved a bag of Javamistica coffee beans from the pantry before carefully measuring them out using a digital scale on the counter. Once he was satisfied, he poured the beans into the burr grinder, adjusting the settings to his liking.
As the machine whirred to life, Milo filled the reservoir with fresh water and lined the brew basket with a clean paper filter. The aroma of ground coffee filled the kitchen, a heady, earthy scent. Gently, he poured the grounds into the filter, closed the basket, and switched on the coffee maker before stepping away. He'd return before long.
In the bathroom, Milo stared at his reflection in the mirror, his mind turning over as he considered the day ahead of him. As the razor glided smoothly over his skin, he went through the plan in his head, reviewing the techniques he was privy to, and anticipating the challenges he would face. He tried to imagine the other artists who had been selected, wondering what talents and ideas they would bring to the day... And if they would block his path.
Milo continued this silent contemplation as he stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the cityscape below as he took the first sip of his steaming morning coffee. He didn't remember when the first seedling of doubt had taken root inside of his mind. Perhaps it was when he had gone to see Barker's "The Unraveling," at Luminary Gallery last year. In it, Barker had woven together intricate patterns of color and line, a dizzying visual tapestry that had dragged him into its tangled embrace. It was—Milo remembered thinking at the time—in many ways, a reflection of Barker's own journey as an artist – a constant struggle to push the boundaries of expression and challenge the status quo. And yet...
Milo stepped into the shower, allowing the warm water to cascade over him, washing away the last vestiges of sleep. He inhaled deeply, letting the steam fill his lungs and clear his turbulent thoughts. As the water flowed over his body, he allowed himself a moment of serenity, a brief respite from the anticipation that had been building within him for weeks.
Once dressed in a carefully chosen outfit, Milo wolfed down a protein bar for breakfast and headed out the door, his satchel slung haphazardly over his shoulder.
The gentle whir of the bike chain accompanied Milo's even breaths as he pedaled, feeling the steady rhythm of his bike beneath him, the slight vibrations from the uneven path resonating through the handlebars and into his palms. The warmth of the sun kissed his skin as a gentle breeze tousled his hair.
The only sound was the crunch of gravel beneath his tires mixed with the occasional birdsong; this part of the District was quieter than perhaps any other. He slowly pedaled to a halt as his eyes took in the imposing gate, adorned with intricate carvings and weathered by time. His breath huffed lightly in his chest as he dismounted his bike, adjusting the strap of his satchel to keep it from sliding down his arm.
"Woah," He breathed, an air of reverence about him. Though, try as he might, he could not shake the feeling of wrongness, that something was amiss. He was here to put those feelings firmly, finally, to rest. At long last, his eyes found the other two individuals standing outside the imposing gateway.
"Hey," he offered, waving a little awkwardly as his strap fell down his arm. He pulled it back up. "Are both of you here for the lesson? Have you been waiting long?"
The clock read 6:05 am.
Milo sighed. He threw off the cover and stretched both arms overhead, then stifled a yawn with his palm. Today was the day he'd been preparing for. The familiar sounds of the city below trickled in: the distant hum of traffic and the faint, intermittent cries of seagulls from the nearby marina. He eased himself out of bed, his body still heavy with sleep, and padded barefoot across the cool, polished floor. The house was already empty—his parents gone, off to parts unknown before he'd risen. No surprises so far.
He began his morning routine, savoring the small, familiar rituals.
He retrieved a bag of Javamistica coffee beans from the pantry before carefully measuring them out using a digital scale on the counter. Once he was satisfied, he poured the beans into the burr grinder, adjusting the settings to his liking.
As the machine whirred to life, Milo filled the reservoir with fresh water and lined the brew basket with a clean paper filter. The aroma of ground coffee filled the kitchen, a heady, earthy scent. Gently, he poured the grounds into the filter, closed the basket, and switched on the coffee maker before stepping away. He'd return before long.
In the bathroom, Milo stared at his reflection in the mirror, his mind turning over as he considered the day ahead of him. As the razor glided smoothly over his skin, he went through the plan in his head, reviewing the techniques he was privy to, and anticipating the challenges he would face. He tried to imagine the other artists who had been selected, wondering what talents and ideas they would bring to the day... And if they would block his path.
Milo continued this silent contemplation as he stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the cityscape below as he took the first sip of his steaming morning coffee. He didn't remember when the first seedling of doubt had taken root inside of his mind. Perhaps it was when he had gone to see Barker's "The Unraveling," at Luminary Gallery last year. In it, Barker had woven together intricate patterns of color and line, a dizzying visual tapestry that had dragged him into its tangled embrace. It was—Milo remembered thinking at the time—in many ways, a reflection of Barker's own journey as an artist – a constant struggle to push the boundaries of expression and challenge the status quo. And yet...
Milo stepped into the shower, allowing the warm water to cascade over him, washing away the last vestiges of sleep. He inhaled deeply, letting the steam fill his lungs and clear his turbulent thoughts. As the water flowed over his body, he allowed himself a moment of serenity, a brief respite from the anticipation that had been building within him for weeks.
Once dressed in a carefully chosen outfit, Milo wolfed down a protein bar for breakfast and headed out the door, his satchel slung haphazardly over his shoulder.
The gentle whir of the bike chain accompanied Milo's even breaths as he pedaled, feeling the steady rhythm of his bike beneath him, the slight vibrations from the uneven path resonating through the handlebars and into his palms. The warmth of the sun kissed his skin as a gentle breeze tousled his hair.
The only sound was the crunch of gravel beneath his tires mixed with the occasional birdsong; this part of the District was quieter than perhaps any other. He slowly pedaled to a halt as his eyes took in the imposing gate, adorned with intricate carvings and weathered by time. His breath huffed lightly in his chest as he dismounted his bike, adjusting the strap of his satchel to keep it from sliding down his arm.
"Woah," He breathed, an air of reverence about him. Though, try as he might, he could not shake the feeling of wrongness, that something was amiss. He was here to put those feelings firmly, finally, to rest. At long last, his eyes found the other two individuals standing outside the imposing gateway.
"Hey," he offered, waving a little awkwardly as his strap fell down his arm. He pulled it back up. "Are both of you here for the lesson? Have you been waiting long?"
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