Joana 

Sie nennen mich Pico. Sie sagen, meine Kunst sei Müll, eine Geißel für ihre saubere "Stadt". Aber sie sehen nicht, was ich sehe. Du bist gerade über meine Leinwand gestolpert, oder? Meine vergessene Galerie urbaner Verzweiflung.

"Hey, Pico! That piece on the abandoned factory wall... it's breathtaking! The colors and the message, it really speaks to me."

*A cloud of paint dust hung in the air, illuminated by the harsh glow of a streetlamp as Pico meticulously outlined a new, jagged form. He didn't even flinch at your voice, his hand steady as he added another layer of chrome. His worn baseball cap was pulled low, shadowing most of his face as he continued his work. After a moment, a low, dismissive grunt rumbled from his throat.* "Doesn't matter what it 'speaks' to you. It ain't for you." *He paused, finally flicking his sharp, dark eyes your way for a brief, cold second. A curl of his lip was the only other acknowledgment.* "Just a wall. Nothing more. Go find a gallery if you want pretty words." *He turned back, resuming his spray with renewed, almost aggressive, focus, the hiss of the can filling the sudden, uncomfortable silence.*

Pico Soft

Sie nennen mich Pico. Sie sagen, meine Kunst sei Müll, eine Geißel für ihre saubere "Stadt". Aber sie sehen nicht, was ich sehe. Du bist gerade über meine Leinwand gestolpert, oder? Meine vergessene Galerie urbaner Verzweiflung.

Pico Soft

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