Urban System in America
Chapter 136 - 135: I Was Them
It wasn’t just the poverty.
It was the loneliness.
It was the madness.
In the quiet hours, Vincent painted not with hope, but with aching need.
He painted beds with tangled sheets, empty chairs, wilted irises. He painted fields that never ended. Stars that screamed.
"Color is how I breathe," he said once, pressing cobalt over canvas like a plea. "If I don’t let it out, it suffocates me."
Rex understood now.
This wasn’t a hobby or art school.
This was survival.
—
One day, Rex woke up, and Vincent wasn’t painting.
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