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400 sketchbooks, 15,000 drawings. 

once called penciled dances. 

i agreed with that.

each a vault, a single moment, 

a few glorious seconds trapped. 

twisted around each line,

the scent, the light on the water, the all of it. 

like a postcard written and never sent, 

a day of my life, broken into seeds,

scattered across paper, 

caught in a book,