He wiped his callused hands on his jeans and stood back. He had missed an air spot and it looked as though Mel Gibson had an instant pimple on his chin.

He sighed. He cranked his head towards the scorching sun and tightened his hold on the roller. A few purposed strokes and Mel Gibson was saved. He gave a last look toward the painted canvas.

The colours are all right he thought, though somewhat paler than he usually paints in. He had spread the color out to cover more space. Money was tight nowadays. He had compromised his work.

There was a time when his canvasses incited excitement, roused up interest and provided a chance for dreamers. In them, he conveyed their hopes, illusions and fantasies. He had created worlds; of players that come to life under his brushes, of stories that were mirrored and captured in time.

He noticed several heads had turned his way. Were they seeing the extravagant promises in the movie billboards? Glory? Honour? Love? Or more importantly, escape?

He knew his days of playing god were numbered. His painted canvasses seldom grace the movie billboards. The calls for his work had dwindled, and behind him, this blow-up of Mel Gibson's latest war effort, was his first for the year. 1999 was not what it was cracked out to be.

Tired, he hoisted himself up and climbed down the ladder. This god of dreams was coming down to earth.