I visited the man in the cave today, but he didn’t want to paint for me. I killed the man in the cave with a sharp rock. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I remembered all the doorways he had painted for me before. All the light seeping through thick canopy, all the arteries you can cut on a deer’s body to kill it in an instant. I killed the man in the cave and I tried to paint with his blood, but I could only paint closed doors, dark featureless skies, and animal hides hung up to dry.