He tells me I am not lost. There is hope yet. He is kind, soft, calm and gentle. He often appears to me in a painting, beset in a large, ornate gilded frame. Towering in size, larger than life in the likes of a portrait comissioned by a baroque lordship.
He sits, his figure dominating the frame from the knees up. His hands crossed one atop the other, resting upon his lap. The backround he in front of is a pitch dark black that seems to absorb light so absolutley, I cannot be sure if it is in fact a painting I peer into or a window to a dimension of purely empty void. He seems to sit in an endless lightless nowhere. Although he is posed diagonally from the perspective of the portrait painter, his head faces us. His vision is cast directly upon us, seeming to search through our eyes into the depths of our souls.