Kimball and Laurel

Two large panels show a close up on a tiny mouse that seems to be moving nervously. Text between the panels says: hiding, and being seen.

A mouse stepping over objects, looks right at us, its little toes spread out to get a good grip. Writing reads: I wonder a little / if sometimes hiding is the most visible thing I can do. The mouse continues moving through obstacles cautiously.

part 14 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Skin texture. The many little crevices and platforms that are barely visible to the eye. Writing says: so what is this ugly self? In another panel there’s a series of short hairs coming out of the skin, maybe an eyebrow. Then the wrinkles and folds on the joint of a thumb. Text continues: what is this uncomfortable self? / why am I still drawn to it?

Long vertical lines that intersect, with little cracks cutting across them, and light bouncing evenly off. Seems to be another patch of skin. An ambiguous panel that seems to be dark shadowed crevices in some part of the skin. Diagonal, intersecting lines seem to be from similar skin to the first panel. Text reads: why do I want to be something else / something ambiguous.

Skin is shown again on this page, looking cracked and filled with many complex intersections. On the bottom panel, what is clearly a fingerprint is shown, with soft whorls of white and gray making a smooth but ribbed surface. Writing says: when i feel it instinctively / that it makes me uncomfortable / that others will be uncomfortable.

part 13 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Two large panels fill this page, with abstract shapes strewn over each other, like scattered shards of broken glass. Words on top read: you get past the -when you get back- part. He is just talking about work responsibilities, things he needs help with.

Three panels show shapes with shaky lines fumbling over each other, and then finally settling neatly on top of each other. Writing on the page reads: what is he talking about. He is asking you to help with that? You, this puddle on a bed?

A sharp thin shape cuts through a larger one, and in two subsequent panels they dance and then settle down at peace. Text says: there is no reality to it. You see that. He is just living in an illusion that will at some point be dispelled.

Three wide panels are filled with overlapping large shapes that brighten the page. Text on the panels reads: somehow you feel better, realizing this. The reality you are in is messy, but you cant deny it like someone on the outside can. You are living it.

A blank white has a paragraph of text in the middle that says: sometimes you will be able to find these unhelpful external ideas by tracking back your feelings to an idea. As you start to rest mor, as you start to live this life of someone who needs rest, there are going to be ideas that just make you feel bad. Sometimes they will make you feel bad subtly, over time, or sometimes right away. Identifying this negative feeling can show you the ideas that impact you the most.

Another white page with a paragraph of text. It reads: Doing all of this will help you see your limits more clearly, which will make it easier to perceive a limit as it comes up and react to it. But it is also necessary work for your mental health. Living as a person who needs rest means needing to weed your mental garden of these unhealthy ideas again and again. New weeds will always pop up again, because you live in the world where these ideas are plentiful. But removing the weeds will make you feel better about yourself, and when you feel better about yourself you can tend to your rest needs better.

The two panels on this page feel peaceful, even as the outlines move around the edges of the shape with an inexact kinetic energy. Text on the panels says: slowly, the feelings pass a little. You find yourself lying on your side, feeling like every emotional, mental, and physical reserve you have is empty.

A wordless large panel sits at the top of the page, and in it two large shapes sit uneasily off to the side, their outlines sloppy and hardly close to the edges they are meant to define. Below, a wide panel with messy sharp shapes and lines says: you find yourself looking back at the message from your boss.

Two tall panels are filled with angular shapes that feel like they overwhelm the space. Text reads: why couldn’t you just feel better. What is wrong. Below, fainter shapes continue to fill most of the wide panel. The writing continues: even when you try to relax it is still there.

Two substantial shapes sit on top of each other, their borders marked loosely by outlines that don’t really fit. Text in the panel reads: your body is still so worn out. Below, two panels with darker grey cloudy backgrounds that contrast with the bright spot the overlapping shapes make. Writing in those panels says: you cant let yourself self destruct again, but you want to.

A large wordless panel has a big polygonal shape with a soft light cast onto it. A small sharp shape seems to be held against the larger shape, ready to pierce it. In two small panels at the bottom text says: how could any of this be real. It does not feel real.

The abstract shapes move over each other, outlines creeping away from their edges. Text reads: A nauseous feeling overtakes you, pushing every thought out of your mind. You want to escape, to get away from all of this. But how. Those last two words sit alone in a panel with an empty feeling to it.

In a large panel, words and shapes sit at the bottom, giving a feeling like looking out at the far off horizon. The text reads: It sort of works. It feels better at first. Below, a silent thin panel lets the feeling of quiet relief continue.

The gray starts to brighten a little, and then over the course of three wide panels, starts to darken again. Words read: But after a bit you start muttering to yourself. What am I doing, what am I doing. The feelings well up again.

A white page has a paragraph of text at its center. It reads: It is not just visibility and invisibility either. Countless ideas throughout culture can get caught in your head. Narratives about pushing through pain or the challenges, narratives about overcoming your setbacks. For many people pushing through is dangerous and overcoming is an impossibility that just casts hard limits as failures. Even seemingly positive ideas like being told you are determined, resilient, or strong can make it harder to let yourself stop when you need to rest. Or bully yourself for letting yourself get into a worse condition.

A white page with a large paragraph that says: Authority figures are not really to be trusted when it comes to this either. Countless people with ME/CFS trusted doctors when they suggested graded exercise therapy, a therapy where they make you do 5 minutes of exercise, then 10, etc. etc. So many people have had their health permanently damaged by that. And as a person with ME/CFS, almost every doctor I’ve ever had has suggested some version of it. And yet, a condition like repetitive strain injury truly does benefit from gently increasing exercise. Nothing works the same for every person, but doctors, coaches, therapists, and self help experts (even zinesters!) are prone to one-size-fits-all advice that can be directly harmful. You can listen to them, because there is plenty of useful wisdom out there, but remember that you are the one who knows your body best. It is most important to listen to your own needs, and your own sense of what is true about your body.

A blank white page with a paragraph in the center, the text reads: It can feel like people emit a reality distortion field on you. Like their expectations, too low or too high, are more real than the observations you’ve made about your own body. They can make you start to expect your body to meet these illusory ideas.

A blank white page with a paragraph in the center, the text reads: Tuning out these ideas comes down to identifying these distortions. While you make observations about your body, compare these observations to what it seems that others expect you to be. And even, what you expect yourself to be. When you identify a contradiction between what you observe of your limits, and what you expect to be able to do, that’s the sign of a message that you need to tune out.

Two panels with dark backgrounds fill the page. In the top one, there’s a strong sense of stillness. Words in it say: You try to breathe in, and just be. In the second panel things feel more crowded and hectic. Text reads:To wait out the impatience, the feelings of disappointment.

This page is filled with a single panel that feels like a deep breath. The text reads: To let it dissipate.

Darker clouds of gray sit on this page, and soft angular shapes top it somberly. Text reads: You feel this impatience in the air, like everyone in your life is tapping their feet somewhere.

Shadows continue to move underneath the shapes of light. A thin panel has writing that says: Waiting for you to just get over it. Below, floating in a large panel of almost entirely stark gray, are the words: to just be done.

Grainy texture moves over polygonal shapes of light, giving an insistent feeling without resolution. Words in the three panels read: And the thought keeps going through your mind that you should be able to do everything you set aside. You should be able to just do it.

This page is divided into quarters, and in each the overlapping shape seem especially bright. Text on top reads: You feel like a disappointment. No one has even said that you are, but, you cant help but feel it.

Two panels split the page unevenly, with the first panel larger and with text hanging low in it with a melancholic feeling. That text reads: You want nothing more than to just go back. And then in the next panel the writing says: So why aren’t you just letting it happen.

A blank white page with a paragraph in the center, the text reads: A large part of getting in touch with your own body, your own limits, is tuning out the messages from the outside world. But we spend our whole lives completely surrounded by these messages, they inform our whole context, they inform what we can imagine and what we can’t. Most of the ideas that we have about ourselves come from external sources. How do you shut something like that out?

A blank white page with a paragraph in the center, the text reads: When it comes to injury, illness, and disability outside perspectives tend to pivot along the lines of visibility, literally, it depends on if you use an assistive device or if your symptoms affect the way your body looks or acts. If your limits are visible to the people around you, they are going to impose a set of expectations of excessive limitation onto you. They are going to infantilize and become uncomfortable when you try to do more than they think you should. If your limits are invisible to the people around you, they are going to basically tell you that you are fine and normal, and impose standardized expectations of able bodied success onto you. Even if you try to tell them you aren’t going to be able to do all of that.

The cover of a zine with two panels on it, both with light polygonal shapes on a murky grey background. Unlike previous issues though, loose white pencil lines mark the general outline of the abstractions. A large wordless panel fills the top of the page, and below, with far more overlapping shapes and lines, text says: how to rest 3 things people will tell you. And then it says kimball anderson.

Dark grey fills two panels that split the page in half. In the panels, polygonal shapes congregate in the corners, moving from dark to light grey as you move toward the center of the panel. The lighter overlapping area in the center is lined with white pencil and contains text. The text reads: You get a message from your boss starting with the words when you get back.

Four panels split the page into quarters, shapes inside continuing to be outlined by vibrating white lines. The text reads: You can’t even think about the rest of the message. You feel guilty, like if you were taking care of yourself better you would already be back.

Three wide panels fill the page. Broad angular shapes move across the cloudy gray murk.Text says: There is an ambient feeling to the world around you that if you just allowed yourself to re-enter your life, you would be fine. Those last few words sit alone in a panel off to the side, leaving an uneasy unbalanced feeling.

Issue 3 in a series based on 20+ years experience as a spoonie, about rest and how hard it can be to accept that you need it. If you want a print copy I'm currently sending out issue 4 on patreon (and can stick 1-3 in the envelope)! Link in bio.

Smokey abstractions with little points of light fill the page. First just vague shapes, and then with more lines streaking across the gray. Text reads: so I look myself in the mirror, right / so I look myself in the mirror / and I get the feeling that / I am just

Hazy vertical lines now stand in the smoky gray panels, giving the feeling of the trunks of thin trees on a foggy night. Writing says: maybe all I am seeing is / stability and instability / what will let people down, and what wont.

Now the lines are diagonal, crisscrossing across the murky gray. White on top makes it feel like the view out of a car window at night. Text reads: just gotta keep going, right? / thats all / just gotta keep going

part 12 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

A zine sits on the wrinkled fabric of a pale seafoam blanket. One large gray panel fills the cover, but in this zine the polygonal shapes are a darker gray, with loose, curving lines outlining their shapes. White text reads: how to rest 4 fears and expectations. And then smaller: kimball anderson.

A pale hand holds open the zine, and two pages can be seen. On the left, two tall panels with small, faint shadows says in white: In the bathroom mirror you catch a glimpse of yourself, and you look strange and ragged. Like some wild beast. On the right, three panels with surer and darker polygons reads: What do you want to be? The thought surfaces again. Every time it feels further away.

The zine is held open so that one page is visible. Text on the plain white page reads: You might also fear the opposite: that you actually are fine, that you are overreacting and imposing this regiment of rest and limitation unduly. This sort of fear makes any ambiguity in your symptoms into feelings of shame and guilt. This too needs to be faced and dealt with as much as you can, because it can lead you to test your limits recklessly and harm your health. Or curl up into yourself and compulsively avoid the world, with activities that might wear you out.

Another two pages are held open by a pale hand. On the left again are two tall panels, this time with shapes that feel more tenuous somehow, maybe because of the sketchy loose lines outlining them. The page reads: What do you want to be? the thought hits you again. You feel the eyes of your childhood self staring at you. On the right, three panels with darker and firmer lines outlining the shadow shapes reads: You are this thing here. This lump of clay you are trying to knead into shape. But everything you do just makes you more formless.

Rest is really hard. You have to fight against your own instincts and hopes. In issue 4 of How to Rest I talk about the pitfalls our minds set. Get a copy on my patreon $20 tier (or $1 discounted slots, while they are still there). I’ll catch you up on older issues too!

Standing starkly against the prior pages that were all black and white on top of brown paper, the first panel has a colorful flower, the petals shifting between yellow and red. Writing says: lately Ive been so nervous / about failing everyone. A bunch of tiny flowers erupt from thin stems.

A red tulip with wide, long leaves. Words say: I feel like / I shouldnt be depended on to hold up anyones expectations / any responsibilities. Golden orange roses, their outer petals drooping to reveal many more.

More roses on this page, their many petals, green stems. A bud. Text reads: they will drop / if theres one thing I know about my life / its that I am not reliable.

part 11 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Text starts the page: I feel like when I look at myself / its never through my own eyes. A figure holds hands up in exasperation or confusion. Another sits and looks down, looking glum and uncertain. Writing continues: theres always a filter / I am always predicting.

This page has three wide panels with a bald, almost facetless figure putting their hands over their face. Mashing at the flesh, and hiding. Writing reads: what will people think on the streets / what is the thing that they wont say?

part 10 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Words start the page: sometimes I like my face less in the mirror / with my longer hair / wearing womens clothes. Choppy, quick lines make up the forms of a self portrait, and a hand seemingly holding a phone camera that isn’t shown.

A strange self portrait with the proportions all skewed is hewn out of quick lines. It looks wrong. Text says: but seem to do better just looking at myself / as a boy / a man / whatever. Then there is a drawing of feet that is considerably more accurate looking.

Text says: shouldnt I just stop, then? Shouldnt that just be proof that its all just / a mistake? Feet seem to hover tentatively, unsure of what will happen when they touch the floor beneath.

part 9 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

A stack of 20 or so teal envelopes sit in the light from a nearby window.

Just sent out How to Rest 3 to my monthly mailings subscribers. Excited to have another chapter seen by others. I could send out some late ones if anyone new signed up!

Read the first issue for free on the link in my bio. Going to be adding more free ones as time goes on!

A mid-sized panel fills the back cover of the zine. It has a smoky gray in it with glowing geometrical shapes. Text reads: A guide to the practical and emotional realities of getting good rest, and a story about how messy the process can look.

This page is filled with one large panel. Inside, a melancholic emptiness fills the spaces between polygonal shapes. Text in the center says: This isn’t tenable long term, you think.

Two small panels filled with dark gray start the page, and text in them says: But a part of you whispers, like you are trying to keep a secret from yourself. Below, a large desolate feeling panel continues: that you won’t be like this long term.

At the center of a white page, text reads: And here are some questions that might help you start to understand what is the “noise” that should be ignored:

On this white page, a series of questions appear. They read: Are there any simple steps to resolving the sensation, like stretching or drinking a glass of water? How did you feel before you started doing whatever you are doing now? What do you wish would happen in this situation? Is the sensation you feel pushing you closer to, or further away from, your wish? That is, what is your bias?

A large panel with murky darkness fills the page. Angular shapes sit at the top and bottom of the page, overlapping. White text reads: You lie back, your head spinning.

A white line splits the page into two shadowy panels with abstractions in them. Text reads: It is strange, there is still a part of you that feels better. Like you needed to run yourself down even more to be okay.

Shapes float on darkness in three wide panels. Text reads: Like there was something in you that needed to prove that your limitations were real.

In tall panels with faint abstractions the writing continues: Maybe it was just that you felt for a moment like you used to feel. You used to feel so much more stable and secure. Maybe a bit of that lingers on.

Three dark wide panels fill this page as small faint polygons drift around white text. The text reads: You kept seeing that stack of papers in the corner of the desk, and actually doing something about it makes you feel like your old self before any of this.

Two small panels start the page, saying: You find yourself stopped, and arent even sure when it happened. A large panel below has soft ghost shapes that float above the text: Just staring blankly down at these pages you can barely focus on.

On a white page, text says: You are the only one who can give you the answers to how your body works. But I can ask a few questions that can start you on the process of finding the signal in the noise:

This white page has a few different questions on different lines. They read: When you push yourself too far, how does it feel? If you push yourself too far, say physically, does it feel different from going too far mentally? Are there any sensations you feel before you push yourself too far? Are these sensations different for different tasks? Can you try to be on the lookout for these pre-symptom sensations?

A plain white page with a paragraph of text in the center. The writing says: Trusting your intuition is a fundamental skill for effective rest. You need to be able to tell when you can push yourself to do something, when you need to stop, and when you need to abstain altogether. The only way to know this is to listen to your body and to reflect on your experiences, and this will often come in a subtle feeling that is easy to dismiss. You need to learn how to give space for that feeling, and to heed it when you can identify it.

Another white page with a paragraph in the middle. The text reads: This also requires finding the signal in the noise, because your body and mind are constantly sending messages about various stimuli. And only some tell you about your health needs.

A tall silent panel spans from the top of the page to the bottom showing spare shapes overlapping in the dark. Beside it, two panels say: You find yourself sorting a pile of papers that you let build up. It’s not important but it feels like you need to do something.

Small panels with light abstract shapes say: It feels better, and worse. Below, two tall panels with brighter shapes hanging at their tops continue to say: That antsiness in you stopped, but you feel a nauseous feeling like an oncoming headache.

Two tall panels are filled with brighter overlapping shapes congregating at the top and bottom, away from the text. The writing reads: You try to not think about the things you need to do. Important tasks looming on the horizon. A wide panel at the bottom is filled with more darkness, with small little shapes hiding in the corner. Text continues: But you feel it in the back of your mind.

Two tall panels are filled with dimmer shapes, and text reads: It used to be easier for you to calm down. There used to be times you knew you could relax. Another wide panel says: Were allowed to relax.

A very dark panel with barely visible overlapping shapes says: Everything is confusing. A slightly brighter panel that still has very soft panels continues: and out of your control.

A large, dark panel fills the page, and in one corner light seems to shine through the murk and glint off of the geometric shapes. White text at the center of the page says: Are you really doing the right thing just lying here?

A plain white page with a block of text in the middle that reads: Your body is honest. It seems too simple to say, but if you feel pain you are in pain, if you feel fatigue you are tired. There is no deception in the signals that your body sends to you.

Another plain white page with a paragraph in the middle says: We act like we can negotiate with our bodies, come up with a compelling enough case to win new health and ability. But our bodies are too straightforward for that. They are not as mutable as we want to think.

Dark gray fills two panels that split the page in half. In the panels, polygonal shapes congregate in the corners, staying away from white text in the middle. The text reads: A restless, squirming energy fills your body, even as moving just increases the heaviness you feel.

Three more panels are on this page, and in them the bright shapes seem to dodge the text, staying to the periphery. Text reads: Is this right, are you doing it right. Is this what resting is supposed to feel like.

Two wordless panels fill the top and bottom of the page, leaving the middle empty. In that plain white middle it says: how to rest 2, listen to your body. The panels above and below are filled with polygonal shapes that overlap over a cloudy gray. The soft transparency of the shapes slightly brighten everything behind. In the darker gray bottom panel it says in white text: kimball anderson.

Issue 2 in a series based on 20+ years experience as a spoonie, about rest and how hard it can be to accept that you need it. If you want a print copy I'm currently sending out issue 3 on patreon (and can see if there are issues 1 and 2 to stick in the envelope)! Link in bio.

Sharp needle shapes coalesce into an abstract form. Curve and bend, are caught by light or by shadow. Writing says: theres a story here, right? / theres a story of a person who / couldnt face life / so they hid and hid and hid.

part 8 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

A zine rests on a velvety seafoam blanket. It has two panels on it, both with light polygonal shapes on a murky gray background. Unlike previous zines though, loose white pencil lines mark the general outline of the abstractions. A large wordless panel fills the top of the page, and below, with far more overlapping shapes and lines, text says: how to rest 3 things people will tell you. And then it says kimball anderson.

A pale hand holds open the zine and shows a page. On plain white, it says: A large part of getting in tune with your own body, your own limits, is closing off the messages from the outside world. But we spend our whole lives completely surrounded by these messages, they inform our whole context, they inform what we can imagine and what we can not. Most of the ideas that we have about ourselves come from external sources. How do you shut something like that out?

The zine is held open by a pale hand again, still on top of the blueish blanket. On the left page there are two equally sized panels with abstract imagery on them. They read: you try to breathe, and just be. To wait out the impatience, the feelings of disappointment. On the right page, a single panel fills the whole page. In a dark gray void, two overlapping fragments of light form the backdrop for the words: to let it dissipate.

The pale hand holds open another set of pages. On the left, brighter, larger abstract geometrical shapes fill two tall panels with a wide one on the bottom. Text in these panels says: Why couldnt you just feel better. Whats wrong. Even when you try to relax, its still there. On the right page, three more panels with prominent outlines around the shapes read: Your body is still so worn out. You can’t let yourself self-destruct again, but you want to.

Issue 3 of a series about rest! This issue is about cultural messages and how to try to deal with them in a healthier way. You can get it on my patreon $20 tier (or $1 discounted slots, while they are still there). If I have the copies, I’ll catch you up on older issues too!

Dark lined drawings of a hand, turning it over. Looking at it. There’s a reflective aspect to the two large panels on this page. Writing says: faking illness when i was younger / really made it hard to believe that / I could be telling the truth about illness.

Text starts the page: like it all just felt like some con. A thumb feeling across fingers, across. The text continues: and sometimes people like seem to agree / saying, must be nice to not have to etc. etc.

part 7 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

A long fish, a koi, a catfish, all detailed and shining with highlights and shadows along their smooth forms. Text reads: saved a roll of bread / and used cleaning products and powdered make up / tore up the bread / and made relatively convincing fake vomit in the toilet bowl.

A ribbon-like eel swims in undulating s shapes, a thick moray eel coils and looks out with those seemingly lidless eyes. And a thick, round fish with rayed fins. Writing says: another time I was in brain fog I think / and was like / yeah, it totally makes sense to microwave a thermometer.

Bleh, text says. A crab extends its back feet, becoming surprisingly long. A school of fish from afar, like little specks of light moving in unison. The text concludes: I am sorry.

Carefully rendered fish fill the panels. A thick fish that is maybe a bass with ribbed fins and a barcode like pattern on its side. A longer spotted fish. A tiny little fish with a chin jutting out. Text says: my illness was too ambiguous / and I knew my parents wouldnt buy it / but I knew I couldnt go to school.

A large panel holds a crab, white highlights showing on the serrated claws and the joints of the legs. Writing says: so I faked various short term illnesses / to stay home from school. A sea turtle moves through the water, its large fins speckled and strong.

Text starts the page: a lot of like / stomach problems. A jellyfish floats through a tall panel, trailing tendrils around what looks like a jeweled necklace. Writing continues: I must have worried my parents that there was something else up / some completely different illness. A sleek fish swims with thin fins.

A barracuda looking fish with speckles and a duckbill looking mouth, and a couple more mid-sized fish. One very smooth and facetless, another with a thick body and big frilly fins. Writing reads: at some point my mom got skeptical / and wanted to see when I fake threw up / so I like.

part 6 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Steam comes up from two hands held out. Text says: I was afraid, right / I just wanted to avoid school / avoid life. Swirls of steam move between the fingers of a closing hand. Text continues: and then I did.

A figure with its head down has steam rise off of it like a cup of tea. It rises from hand and shoulder, from feet. Text reads: I can see the narrative / I can believe it.