I am awakened by the presence of something vigilant. It must have been calling to me from my dream. The night is dark and quiet. I roll over in bed. As I turn away from the wall, light particles follow my sight’s pathway. Like flickering grains in the darkened room. It moves fast, but I manage to register it, as the grains collect—and take form—as a person right in front of me. A man, sitting in lotus position—with the clearest eyes I have ever seen. 
Everything about him is complete, but wholly transparent. With his persistent gaze, he stares directly at and right through me, creating the perception that I am the one being transparent. 
The white canvas quivers. A sketch appears. White areas still untouched by paint. Larger surfaces of the tissue are saturated and drowned in colour. There is a point where the saturated starts breathing, in its own autonomous existence, and the hand is detached.