Neal didn't think he was much of an artist either, but he once did. His mother too, she used to be such an artist. She taught him to paint and his colors once belonged to her. Maybe that was why he found it so hard to use the paints now even though the emotion was far more complex than just disliking them now. He lifted his face up to look at the table on the other side of his room where his sketchbook lay. ::Starbucks? Not so much, though if I'm awake this early, I feel like I might need it:: Somehow he just never got into indulging himself like that.