"Sometimes." He answered. Sloth was turning into something of a surprise. It kept his attention at least. He wiggled open a desk drawer which had some actual paint inside. He sent the tubes sliding out across the floor. It was quite the dark palette. His canvas was a piece of flat particle board, his brushes his fingers, the same way he painted with blood.
He sat at the other end of the couch, his long legs swallowing around her. In his lap were tubes of paint that ended up all over his hands. He'd become quite good at painting like this, almost better than a brush. He cut his eyes over the panel with a dark furrowed brow. "Don't look at me," he snapped. He couldn't stand it. He hated when they looked at him.