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What is it about decay that pulls at me? Besides the obvious things: the fact that, after you reach 30, decay is the major motif of your life, the fact that I love cheese and oft-washed jeans.  Give me a town collapsing in on itself, and I’m a happy sketcher. Pretty flowers and perfect bodies are for others to record. I want dead leaves and scars. I celebrate mortality, but I can’t face my own. I’m so tired of contradictions, I really am.