Although a proficient and prolific sketcher at an early age, circumstance dictated a trajectory in the sciences and not the arts. And so, the trek unto a ten year career in IT ensued, seldom if ever sketching anything other than crudely drawn figures for comedic effect; the occasional caricature of a friend or teacher, the anthropomorphism of phalli replete with accoutrements. You know, the usual. Having reached the pinnacle of his profession, Xé's mind capitulated to the pressures borne of expectations and repression. He was in a quandary, foundering in a morass of borrowed dreams and fervent desires; the boy was a wreck. It was then that, once again, the circumspect succumbed to the impetuous. Enveloped in music, literature, and counterfactual conditional tenses, the muses tore away at the dwindling carcass of his ever fragmenting mind. With nothing left to cling to, devoid of both vocation and volition, and his brain functionally diminished to such depths that he was barely able to conjure up grunts, Xé immersed himself in the canvas; wanting of it a pristine baptismal pool in which to wash away all sins, or at the very least, and this is the case, stain it with them.

Chico