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Don Nace

Don Nace

You feel small. Every bit. Chunk. Of yourself feels like a fog, like life is glazed over with a perpetual gray. As you watch everyone around, knowing they are without that fog, it collapses a bit of your heart. That's what makes you small. To know that what made you alive is not there, not a held lovely, and that no one shall see that place. You sit uncomfortable among the comforted. And in that you cannot feel the light supposedly inside.

You feel small. Every bit. Chunk. Of yourself feels like a fog, like life is glazed over with a perpetual gray. As you watch everyone around, knowing they are without that fog, it collapses a bit of your heart. That's what makes you small. To know that what made you alive is not there, not a held lovely, and that no one shall see that place. You sit uncomfortable among the comforted. And in that you cannot feel the light supposedly inside.

Don Nace

Don Nace

Don Nace

Don Nace

Don Nace, floor drawing

Don Nace, floor drawing

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