The dusty man's stooped figure was hunched over a can of white paint, he held a small wooden paintbrush in his right hand while shielding his view from the sun with his left. On his face was a look of intense concentration, his tongue was stuck out of his mouth and writhed around with each brush stroke, following the direction of the paintbrush as though it were attached to it by string. Indeed, his whole body seemed to mimic the events transpiring on the shiny pane of glass in front of the weathered man, his back arched as he painted the majestic curves of the letter “O.” His eyebrows leaped and fell as his brush followed the roller coaster ride of the flowing “M.” When he moved from letter to letter he did a little dance, hopping to the right in order to continue the flow of calligraphy without breaking his tempo. Finally, when he had reached the final letter, his face was inches away from the glass, his tongue was writhing manically with effort and his brow poured sweat into his gleaming, squinting eyes. And then it was done. Roots carefully propped the paintbrush across the rim of the paint can, sat back and looked up at the giant glass window that had so thoroughly occupied his being for the past five hours. He read aloud to himself, “ROOTS' EDIBLE HERB EMPORIUM” and fell back into a fit of giggles with a grin on his face like that of a child who had just built the biggest sand castle on the beach and didn't notice the tide slowly eating away at it's foundation beneath.
