The so called artiste lay in his room, on his bed. The walls of the room were bare; wallpaper had been stripped to reveal faded blue and green paint. Abstract splotches. The so called artiste dug it. All his possessions had been removed to facilitate the wallpaper stripping process. Afterwards he had not returned much to the room. A few books, the TV, games console. Just a few inane distractions.
It was his stereo he missed the most. Listening to CDs on the games console via the crappy wee TV was unsatisfying. And he couldn't listen to his records at all.
Besides that, he had other problems. Like what the fuck was he doing with his life? for example. Dossing around, reading books. Sleeping during the day. Sitting up late and writing, or else drinking. A perpetual malcontent. Yet fairly easily satisfied, all in all.

There was the wee lassie at work. The wan he'd taking a liking to. It was absurd. She was a whole seven years his junior. Plus sometimes she struck him as a tad daft. Aw here we go, the elitist cunt again. The supposed artiste.
His room was imbued with a minimalism that he sorta dug. He had been writing a lot more recently. Maybe hucklin' oot aw that clutter had cleared his heid a bit. Plus there was the fact of him being hugely influenced by James Kelman, an author he'd recently discovered.
The wee lassie: she dug him. But to what extent? He hoped to the extent that she yearned for a bloody good ravishing from him, the frolicsome wee wench that she wis!
Nah, he wanted to protect her, keep her warm. None of that depraved carnal shit. That simply wasn't wholesome, baby. It wisnae spiritual. And that was the level he affected to vibrate on.
Still, if he were to find himself in a situation where she was on her knees, fellating him, gazing up at him doe-eyed, well, he wouldn't object!. Definitely not. On the contrary, he'd positively encourage such behaviour! He'd encourage her in a husky voice, thick with lust, whilst gently slapping the back of her heid. Gowd dammit, that wid be braw!
Still, no point meditating on these unlikely occurences, much less writing aboot them.