Since Chris runs his own designing firm, he easily justifies taking a day from work to feed his creative spirit. Today, there will be no computers, no printers; today, there is Chris, a palette of colours, and his beloved brush. He will be the conduit of each brush stroke, and in their rhythm he will come to rest and find peace.
Rising with the sun, a gnarly, multi-limbed tree quickly appears upon the canvas. The tree rushes forth from the earth, and beneath its crust are its roots.
Now he needs to let it breathe and find the sky while he walks away from it for a while. Chris pours himself a cuppa and turns on the television for a different visual, his tree as yet sans futur. It’s 9:15 when he presses the power button. It's September eleventh 2001.