It's true enough of most people, too.

Sterling's was painting. He picked it up a little late in his life, so hiding it had always been pretty easy for him since he lived alone and didn't have any of the family over much. His apartment was small, with only one bedroom and bathroom. But downstairs from him was a small garage that he stored his motorcycle in. The other half of it was a makeshift studio. He bought an old easel and built all of the frames for the canvas. The easel set near the back wall when not in use, but moved toward the side where a long workbench contained several brushes and paints, along with spare pieces of wood and rolled up canvas for later times.

They were often abstract paintings. He didn't see the point in depicting landscapes that you could go walk to and see. And he wasn't great with portraits, but he could blend scenes from reality and thick splashes of color in ways that were interesting to him.

All his completed works were held in tall locker he had in the corner of the room, he rarely took them out after finishing.

Sterling often asked himself why. He never could come up with a particular reason, the thought of showing them to people, of leaving them out in the open simply never sat well with him.

It wasn't a way to cope with stress. It was just something he did in his free time, often timeless and enjoyable.

And honestly, that's all there is to it.