This is a scene, as explained, I wanted to do something with. I learned on the pertinent day that I'm no good with a paint brush; but to quote Sir Sean Connery, my "PENIS MIGHTIER." (I swapped the name for a DFW one.)

~I remember, like the second time we hung out, we went down to Woodlawn Lake with paint and a canvas and dipped it in water and came back and parked in your driveway and just talked. While discussing your sincere concern for Orin at one point--I recall this scene so vividly, I wanted to paint it: the blue of my stereo light lambently lining your facial features, brushing your bones smooth, softly silhouetting your profile a flowing contour framed by your fluidly falling hair--to hear your care, to see the softness, I felt in my cab's conditioned air a fragility of feeling that made me feel... empathy--not quite, no--sympathy- for you; and for me, that I didn't care about something that way, feel the way you did about anything at all.~
And here was my mortal error. I could not lend that feeling to anything else until I gave it to myself.