He shakes his head, giving a slight shrug, and moves to rest his elbows on the railing, looking into the crowd but not at it. "I still have some of the things I painted in the beginning," he says, "but I don't keep anything now. I mean, what I painted before was mine. It was my frustration and anger and sorrow and pain and a lot of just me rolled around in paint and left on canvas. That's the stuff that's not meant for anyone else unless I share it with them." One arm stretches out, gesturing towards the decorated walls of the party. "Anything of mine you'd find here really isn't mine in any sense but that my hands were used to make it. Each piece has it's own purpose, it's own message. They come from somewhere else, somewhere outside of me, and they're meant for other people. I don't know what any of my art means anymore but there's someone out there, some individual to go along with each one, who does. Sometimes I know who that individual is. Maybe when I finish their piece or maybe just when I see them it clicks. Sometimes I have no idea. I just hope that it falls into the right hands."
Having babbled all of that, Morgan stops, then rests his chin on his hands, muscles in his shoulders tightening with another non-breathing version of a sigh.