Alive in the Night

My best work has always come alive in the nighttime. I was a night owl as a kid, hiding under the covers with a flashlight, trying not to get caught reading a book after my mother had already told me to put it away and go to bed.

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She didn’t like paint. She didn’t like how the colored pigments stuck to her skin and dried on her ripped jeans in sticky, hard lumps. It’s like another layer of skin, she would say to me, and I would agree, cringing at the thought. The last thing I needed was another shell suffocating me…

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