The Art of Living on My Skin

Previously

…Pip smiled. It wasn’t Shakespeare. It wasn’t even a particularly coherent haiku. But it was honest. And as they added a small, smudged drawing of a pigeon looking smug, Pip realized that this messy, imperfect art of living, documented one ink-stained page at a time, was perhaps the most beautiful masterpiece of all. The dread was still there, a faint hum in the background, but now it was accompanied by a melody of laughter, a testament to the enduring, and often hilarious, art of being oneself.