Skin Deep.

If I were an artist, the idea of a creating a self portrait wouldn’t be so daunting.  I’ve had a long love affair with my particular set of features.  Vanity courses through my veins.  But I’m not an artist.  I’m a writer.  A tangible portrayal would be simple.  My hypothetically dextrous hand would be kinder while duplicating the peaks and valleys of my dearly self-obsessed image.  This representation would be lovely due to the fact that it’s purely physical.  It wouldn’t have any of the truth my inner monologue would whisper sheepishly from a written page.

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Skin Deep.

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