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It is the infrequent gasp of air that I retain in my lungs after struggling to the surface. It is that masochistically euphoric moment where I feel as though I've somehow expressed myself and shared my life with some other being.

There I exist, as artist and as man–two wholly different things. As man, I exist in a near perpetual state of loneliness, as if trapped underwater. Artistry is the medium through which I feel alive, despite the inevitable.

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