“He paints a picture, but the story has a twist: his paint brush is a razor. And his canvas is his wrist. He paints his picture in a color that's blood red. While using his sharp paint brush, he ends up finally dead. His picture's fading quite slowly on his arm. The blood is not racing through him; he can no longer do harm. He painted his picture, but his picture had a twist. You see his mind was his razor, and his heart was his wrist.”