“My dad thinks he likes Picasso and his style,” Lincoln says, stepping closer to me. “But he keeps buying ones that reflect the styles of Warhol and da Vinci.” “Why?” Lincoln stares at me, an answer reflecting in his eyes, but before he voices it, he steps away, walking to the far wall, filled with extravagant and simplistic images of scenery. “Because my mom liked them.” He turns, moving his gaze across each wall. “This room is a reflection of them and the realities of how they couldn’t be together, just like these paintings.” “But, he still collects the works she loved?” It’s a question or
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