"We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep."
Shakespeare (The Tempest)
The gallows pole. A snakelike rope bound on it, quite stretched. The victim hanging by the neck wasn't present in the picture yet, still to be drawn. Spike sketched the scene he had stirring in his mind for some days now, a living picture from a half-remembered dream.
The work in the arts class that morning was about drawing a picture with the theme of free will. Normally Spike would avoid sharing the content of his thoughts with a teacher, but he couldn't get rid of that image and was urging to put it on a paper, it didn't matter if somebody else would see it. The teacher would probably tear the picture apart, but fuck it; after all it wouldn't be the first time he presented morbid pieces of art. "No artist is morbid", he remembered Sam saying to him in some occasion, "an artist can express everything. Oscar Wilde said that." Though Spike didn't consider himself an artist,