He got to his feet and walked to his cot, where he picked up a few pieces of charcoal, a pencil and his scruffy sketchbook. Its spine was brittle and well-worn and about half of the paper had been filled up on both sides. Slender stretches of graphite curled round the yellowed paper, turning and coiling in various animals, plants and other things: each shadow and square of light was intricately stencilled and crosshatched with such care that it could only be described as brilliant.
“I know it’s a bit damaged,” he mumbled. “Damaged and ugly—but it’s all I’ve got.”
“Well, I think it’s lovely.” At his expression of doubt, I smiled. “There’s a certain degree of beauty in damaged things. They’ve got character, you know?”
“But who wants something that’s broken?” he asked me. “If it can’t be fixed, it’s just trash. Nobody wants trash. There might be something romantic in destruction, but not decay. Because decay’s slow—it happens inside first, and by the time you see it, it’s too late.”
“We’re not talking about your sketchbook anymore, are we?” I asked him quietly, and he only shrugged.
I spent the whole day drawing, and this was the only salvageable fruit of my hard work, which isn't saying a lot. Sorry for bad quality
art, writing, character (c) me