It's there in the corner of a small and dusty room. Partially covered by a torn piece of burlap and an old shirt that is now speckled with paint, it never moves. The sunlight graces its face for a small portion of each day, and then the shadows consume it. But when it catches the light, the colors shine so vividly. It almost glows with warmth. The man in the room knows that it's there, all tucked away, just the way he left it. It is his masterpiece, his Mona Lisa. Fear is his only inhibitor.
In his dreams, he invites the museum curator to take a look at his work. He awakes with anticipation each and every day. But the curator never shows, and the man forgets that it was only a dream. So, his painting sits just like it was the day before, and the day before that, and many more before. It sits in the corner, creating a small spot where the dust never hits the floor.
What good is such a painting if no one ever sees it? What good is music if it is never heard?
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