"Sure," Tavis said, not looking at Davvin as he left. Afterwards, he plopped into his chair and stared at his sketchbook, pencil tapping on the table edge. For almost ten minutes, he sulked in silence within his thoughts never making sense. Then he realized he'd started to draw and the image of davvin's tattoos curled all across the page, going way outside the bounds of the outline he drew earlier. He stared down at the image, blinking. Just like that, inspiration hit him and Tavis flew into motion. Pages fluttered all over his work space as drawings filled them, coming from every angle, every permutatiom of the original sketch. Tavis passed the night in that frenzy with Bartók playing in the background until he fell asleep among his art close to dawn. He never paused to ponder the sudden onslaught of this inspiration or the fact that he could draw his model without him there. No, Tavis just knew he had to make this sculpture now.