A tattoo is the soul’s own portrait—a permanent gallery of a life’s profoundest sentiments.

But you ask what mine would be before it exists. You want to know before I begin.

That is your mistake.

The canvas does not tell the artist what to paint. The artist discovers it by painting.

And that’s me.

A canvas.

Think of a bare concrete wall. Solid, raw, standing there patiently, waiting for just the right piece of art.

The masters did not rush the brushstrokes.

Masterpieces take time.

And that is exactly how I look at myself—a permanent canvas that shouldn’t be rushed.

If you’re going to put something on a wall forever, shouldn’t you be very certain you want to look at it forever?

So my wall remains clean.

Not empty.

Waiting.

There is a difference.

Perhaps one day inspiration will strike. I will lift my brush with absolute certainty and say,

There.

That’s the one.

But today?

No.

My canvas is still clean, and I am in absolutely no hurry at all.

So, by all means.

You go first.