
It felt like the world stopped spinning and grew old, the fire stopped dancing, and all that was left was the moon, staring cold at me.
This is my inner sanctum of sketchiness, every night before I sleep I draw or write my dreams so they don't get in the way of a good night's rest. Each picture is a self portrait narrative, some pictures become other pictures. Can you figure out which ones? Are you clever? Well this is my mad world, so enjoy.

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