His wastebasket is a flurry of outdated images and snack wrappers. The ripped pages of sketchbooks are a dedication to his rejection of the commonplace use of the word “art”. For him, such an abstract and complicated term has no place being domesticated or tamed, as much as an eagle being chained to fly through hoops, despite being generally frowned upon. His fears include having his wings clipped, his hands broken, leaving their only purpose a phantom limb being flexed in his dreams. But he kicks away the shears and fights off the hammer. He empties his wastebasket, and then draws from the skies.