Who knew I was an artist? Me. That's who. There will be more sketches, and most will be better than this... this was just something I threw together pretty quick-like. You like that word? Yeah.

This image was brought about as I recalled the quote: "You are an old soul, Cory."

"WHO TOLD YOU?"

That second part took place on November 2, 2076.

And while I'm linking Images, I can show you guys something I had fun working on, even though it is still unfinished. Make sure you have Firefox, or a better browser than IE to run the GIF. Just a little flash project I thought was pretty fun.

Here's a little "Part on and may be continued later" type thing for all of those who, like me, enjoy the "Want to go out and change your life" novels.

"I like the way the room shakes when I get angry--it's soothing. It's a twitch I've had ever since I was about 12, although it could've been self-inflicted. I've never really figured out why I got it, but whatever the reason, it probably has something to do with anger because those are the only times I feel it. My entire vision blurs and my left eye twitches uncontrollably back and forth, while my right eye stays in the same place, unfocused.

I've told some of my friends about it, and they just joke about me being high. Shit, I wonder what I look like when it happens. My eyes become a dark pool of red and I look past what I'm trying to see, while forcing myself to remain calm. Maybe there are some childhood problems that need solving...or maybe there's something deeper I can't put my finger on...or maybe it's just a lack of something. I don't give a shit. I'm making a fucking mountain out of a molehill.

The weirdest feeling, however, is when my eyes don't shake, but instead the room does. For example, say a subway was passing by somewhere outside. The room begins to shake and soon I begin to feel angry. Is it a reflex or just a memorize emotion? Like I said I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. I need to calm my thoughts. Listen to the patter of my shoes on the thick concrete beneath my feet.

I pass a store. Two men are sitting outside it. I pick up a few words carried over to me carefully and plopped in my hands soothingly by the wind. I move them up to my ears. "And who the fuck is willing to pay that much for an apartment?" "Hell if I know." "Do you need a refill on that mocha latte?" "Who doesn't...."

It makes me sick, listening to mindless dribble. But all I can do is listen. I can't go up to them and say, "Shut your fucking brain-hole you motherfuckers," because that'd be rude...but it'd be fun, so I murmur it as I walk by. If we were back in the older days I'd just go up to them and smash their fucking heads in, and no one could stop me. Nowadays, I can't do that anymore. My instinct has been washed away, leaving bone and mind and conscience and choice, but no boldness or violence. I am a weak, pathetic human being, minding my own business, walking down a sidewalk, thinking, listening, and hoping: soon, something in my life will change. Soon, I might be able to get out of this place."