And the snow angel slowly melts into the earth, part of sun and shadow, while Molly watches obediently, thinking, "What on earth? Why does she always make me wait here in the cold snow? What is she doing? Why doesn't she throw the ball already?"
Slightly elongated portrait, done with pen. I think I look a bit like a Native American here. I don't think I have ever examined my face as much as I am doing now, with this resolution. When I was little the only treatment for a bad asthma attack was for the doctor to come to the house and give me what was probably some type of anaesthetic, which basically knocked me out for hours, and it seemed to work, because everything, including the inflamed little bronchioli in my lungs, relaxed. I remember that it was so deep, that sleep, that when I finally clawed my way back to wakefulness, I felt as though I had died, and somehow come back to life. I would gaze at myself in the bathroom mirror and try to remember who I was, hope that I was still the same person. Strange to face such existential questions at such a young age.
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