With a smirk, his fingers moved by their own, and his hand approached the chalk on the wall. What followed was a series of actions that could never be articulated in proper adult vernacular. It was an unexplicable phenomena, of indescritible nature. The older you get, the hardest it is to understand.

It was a child, drawing.

With the dexterity of a fly and the motion control of a duck, Max graceously scribbled crooked lines and wobbly forms, slowly crafting a shape of his imagination, giving form to an image that hopefully would serve its ultimate purpose: to scare his own, past self.

The objective was clear: a message had to be delivered. The “hows”, however, were more nebulous - how to achieve the most expressive outcome, while at the same time doing it the fastest speed one can get? (the type of hurry one in a really tight time-travel schedule would find themself into, for example)

I fear nor me or Max could find a discernible answer to this everlasting dillema.

What he did was simply the best he could. Missing a few linings here, adding some more there. To spare time from not so necessary details to give weigth to what was more important. The secret was in the shape, in the form, in the perception.

The result, at the end, could never be disqualified as “art”.

It was done with heart, after all.

With a proud sigh, Max annonced:

“It’s finished.”

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