Fiction | September 01, 1996

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When the phone rang, Rosenthal was kicking a canvas to shreds in the middle of his studio.  He’d already thrown a can of wet brushes against the far wall and had kicked a tray of paint across the room, leaving an attractive boat-shaped smear of burnt sienna sailing along the whitewashed floorboards.  The place should have been condemned, and so should Rosenthal:  trapped inside another night of failure in a season of failure, locked in a listless, drifting orbit around a failing sun.

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