He sat and he wrote until he couldn’t breath he’s choked, sitting there painting and feeling like his hands couldn’t stroke any longer.

He’s so small but he knows this painting is his last there will be no other, so he paints a picture of his mother.

They’ll call her Mona Lisa because they don’t understand her. He’ll paint her because it’s the only person he wants to remember.

So praise Da Vinci, the murderer, for what he has done. Your work is a lie it was at the hands of your son. His blood pathed the way for your recognition. But he went happily for his mother he’s no longer missing.