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Nov 2018
for months I painted a/your portrait. the brush would meet the canvas at 11pm approximately every night and would last until the dawn of the am when my eyes went black and paint had splashed my face pretty.
the brushstrokes were coarse and accentuated goodness in lust and shadows in the contours. the beauty was indisputable but the colours on the pallet I had not yet mastered.
so it wasn't until the previous night or two ago when I heard the child run by my half finished canvas. as I approached it, glass shattered on the floor below it. the glass reflected my face as I seen myself in pieces.
I have renamed it self-portrait.
"when will you draw me?"
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