It was rare that anyone ever saw John's independent sketches. He smiled a little, offering his book over so that the man could look at it closer if he wanted. "I don't remember why I drew it. Sometimes when I have nothing else to do my mind... wanders."

To darkness, mostly, but sometimes to light. The sun distracted him... it unsettled him, at times. He had no home and barely felt the cold, but sometimes he felt the desire to seek shelter from its gaze. To hide, ridiculous as he thought it. He didn't entertain the notions -- they were fleeting ideas, and crazy ones. When he had drawn that picture his mind had gone blank for almost the entire process, a frantic scribble of blackening the page meticulously under his fingertips had been stained, as well. The careful process of erasing the lines, small and fragile and still somewhat smudged with the grey of pencil.

"You can have it, if you want," he offered. "I don't need it."