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Description
Dear Doctor,

I have a confession to make: I'm not who you think I am. I'm not who I thought I was. I'm no pinstriped zebra darting between realities. I'm no lover bathed in orange lamplight. I'm not the proudest, fleshy member of a nudist colony.

I'm sitting somewhere between the white lines of Zara Hadid and the concrete curves of Frank Ghery.

I am not the smell before rain, or the blood pumping through your capilleries. I am not Andy Warhol, but I am not Vincent Van Gough.

I am sitting somewhere between bamboo and birch; somewhere between oil and acrylic; somewhere between charcoal and kindling.

I am not watercolour. I am not laser-printed magenta toner.

I am me. Just me.

Description
Dear Doctor,

I have a confession to make: I'm not who you think I am. I'm not who I thought I was. I'm no pinstriped zebra darting between realities. I'm no lover bathed in orange lamplight. I'm not the proudest, fleshy member of a nudist colony.

I'm sitting somewhere between the white lines of Zara Hadid and the concrete curves of Frank Ghery.

I am not the smell before rain, or the blood pumping through your capilleries. I am not Andy Warhol, but I am not Vincent Van Gough.

I am sitting somewhere between bamboo and birch; somewhere between oil and acrylic; somewhere between charcoal and kindling.

I am not watercolour. I am not laser-printed magenta toner.

I am me. Just me.