Jonathan didn’t know he wasn’t human. But then, even if he had, it wouldn’t have changed a thing.
He’d always painted what he saw, out of mud or food, or whatever came to hand. He had to; these visions pushed him, bled out his eyes and filled his ears until all he could even taste was weird unraveling of the future, and the only cure for augural blindness was to splatter it out in colors, shapes, forms.
He’d done it since he was a child. Since he could remember. For all he knew, he’d done it in the womb.