And this, a sort of surreal homage to both Magritte and my tattoo, made me wonder how closely paintbrush had been watching (and whether I should start getting dressed in the bathroom). "Now you know how it feels to be useless!" I heard a small voice cry. I turned to see paintbrush. "We did all this without you!" he yelled. 'We are the masters of the brush!" "Without me?" I snorted. "There would be no art without me! If you wanted to shove it in my face so much, why is this like some sort of creepy series of devotion? Why are they all pictures of me?" He stuttered and fell silent; clearly he had not seen it this way. "Well, we were going for more...threatening...than..." "Adoring?" "Yeah, that." "Well, you failed. Epically. But I can see your point. In fact, I've always seen your point; you guys are the most important things to my art!" I told him. He beamed up at me. "Well," I continued, "most important after skill...and talent...and inspiration...and..." I caught paintbrush's low growl. "But you guys are the most important," I nodded vehemently.