How are your lines so PERFECT every time? Just. Every line. Every time. "I must know their secret", I tell myself at work, as my colleagues look at me like I'm crazy.

When I first started art I knew that practice wasn’t going to make perfect so I stared longingly into the cosmos and whispered to the elder great ones, waiting for an answer of eldritch origins.  Lo and behold the eyes were granted to me and i saw through the veil of reality into the realm of dreams, time stretched before me in impossible lines, from which i plucked a single strand of light from, sewing it with a divine needle through the folds of my brain, thus, the light guides my hand, and it feels as though it is no longer mine. What have I given myself into, were the secrets worth the humanity I slowly lose, drained away from with every stroke of the pencil.

I, too, once uttered the words, “i must know their secret” and now secrets are whispered back to me

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.̷̻̳̰̣͎͈̘͍̘̫̖͒͛͆̍͗̿͠͠.̷͈̠̀̽̈́̅̑̍̿̈́̂̍̅̚̚͝͝.̸̠̱͖͊͒̇̅̅͑̇̕͝y̵͍̭͇̠̳̜̰͚͖͉̫͊̏̈́̀̽͛̎̊̾̐ò̴̰̫͗̔͘ù̴͍̫̯̪̱̞̱̇̕ ̵͙̹͔̪͇̀̐̊̀̓̕ķ̶̨̦̹̻̫̘͓́ň̸̳̙̘̞̞̣͖̳͖̩̞̜̖̗̾̀̇͑̊̉̌͘͘͜ǫ̴̭̗̠̠̬̳̤͖͖̜̙̬͖͐̔̂͋̏̄̂̓͛̇̾̅̔͝͝ẉ̴̨͎͉̺͚͐͑̍̈̚ ̵̮͋̓͒̃̍̓̀̒͂̐͛̇̋̔͝o̵͔͚̐͂͒̎͐̂̂̏̈́͠͠u̷̧̜͕̺̟͇͎̫͔̗͉̮̮̼̾̋͌͋́̈́̓̂͗̕͘͝r̷̨̤̘͇̈́̔̂̀́̃̅͂̈͠ ̴̨͕̖͓̖̬̯͕̱͉̱͙̈́͌̆̇̋̔͛̌̒̆̚̚͝ș̴̨̢̦̙͙͈̼͎̼̣̣̤̝̌͂ͅȇ̸̲̗̺̜̺̜̗̜̹̫̭̮̿̍͊̐͌̂͜c̵͕͍̳̫͔̞̙̺̪̰̼͈̯̤͊͛̂̿͊̒́͘r̸̠̪̹̬̄̑͒͋̈̽̀́̃̿̀e̴̛̘̰̣̦̲̠̾̎̐͐̓̒̅̔͝ͅt̸̛̞͍͊̈ş̷̜̭̮̥̰̱̣̙͙̰̬̹̤̂̈́̒͑̽̽̂̅̕͜͠͝.̷̻̳̰̣͎͈̘͍̘̫̖͒͛͆̍͗̿͠͠.̷͈̠̀̽̈́̅̑̍̿̈́̂̍̅̚̚͝͝.̸̠̱͖͊͒̇̅̅͑̇̕͝

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