"He colored his own Heaven.

He traced clouds, playing with the colors as if he was a real artist and tried to give his oeuvre glints, shadows and perspective.  Once he was finished, he sat down on the chair and looked intensely at it for a minute. It was ugly. It was worth a four year old drawing. The ink had already disappeared at some places. His mother would be furious at him.

Yet Taemin had never felt so proud of himself for what seemed to be an eternity, even if it was in some morbid way.

He had finally done something good and the only thing he missed to completely immerge himself in his newly created paradise was someone talking about him, so he would not have to think. And it would be so ing real."