My life is a piece of Renaissance art. It's cracked and scarred, it has survived years in damp, dirty basements - hidden away and protected from wars, guns and bombs. It's unrecognisable and beyond repair, but it's precious and priceless, and it's mine. Beyond all the layers of dust you get to find the vibrant colours of the old masters, and if you are among the lucky few - I will allow you to read the hidden messages on my surface.
But for now I'm still yet to be discovered on the attic of a long-dead art dealer, forgotten and untraceable (and that sounded way more grim than I intended, but this too happens sometimes).
Also, I was doing a charity cycling event at work three days in a row which is currently resulting in a sore bum and bruises on the most unpleasant places.
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