A shape of some art started to take form last year. Strokes and forms that came from my mind and out through my hand with a familiarity that they've been there with me all my life. For a long while, I've been practicing drawing and painting like someone else, whose works reflected a more attractive version of me, I suppose. I've never been very good at those at all. Nowadays, I'm happy to impart that I've been slowly killing that person, in a very deliberate and drawn out way, à la that last scene in the dressing room in Aronofsky's 'Black Swan'. Overly dramatic, but she will probably return to haunt me.