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If this were a book of my life, it would contain hundreds of pages faded blank. Strewn between them, some indecipherable nonsense, half of it scratched out from constant revision (hopefully a couple of cogent lines are hiding amongst those broken glyphs).

A few pages here and there would contain illustration – portraits mainly, but also landscapes of who and what I’ve loved – fields of colour and texture bleeding one into the other, punctuated by meticulous zones of crisp detail… nothing very accurate, but still quite pretty. The best ones though, would be torn out, screwed up, or given away, because they were too hard to look at again.

I hope no one out there has an original draft, with everything still in it – that would be a tough read!

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