Paint my portrait. Part two.

In the very corner of the strange room, where everything was covered in paint and paintings, was a little man made of clay. But it would seem that what could be strange about a man? It was that the clay man was an exact copy of me. Same long hair, same facial features and build. This artist seems to have created this work of art recently. Or maybe a long time ago. For some reason, the longer I stared at the exact replica of myself, I got a little creepy. No, the longer I looked at myself, the more I realized how much I wanted to leave this place. Turning to look at Leon, I still didn't ask about the man. Instead I just continued to watch as Eduardo, a complete stranger to me, continued to paint as if we weren't here.

When another five minutes passed, he put his brush down on the chair and sighed in relief. Behind his broad back, I could see the canvas filled with the colourful world that is now forever imprinted on that surface.