Those aren't my rules. They're Tom's.

One of the posters says Meu corpo, minhas regras (My body, my rules).

My lies, my truths, my intentions, myself even, we are all utterly irrelevant.

Geronimo used to say that, My only friends are my legs. I only trust my legs.

My measurements.

You have my condolences.

Promising to give exhibitions of paintings, I shipped my paints and arrived in Mahabalipuram.

And I submit them, my intuitions, my hypothesis, my first ideas.

Better ones, more of them.

My macros

Did you miss me?

Did you miss me?

Answer my questions.

Those are mine.

These are mine.

Those aren't mine.

I covered my ears.

My keys are gone.

I'm telling you where I'm insecure.

So my three stories.

My children are growing.

But first, my disclosures.

I'm running out of ideas.

My characters drove cars.

Oh my dear paws!

These are my sculptures.

My vacation went by quickly.

My prayer was answered.

My prayer was answered.

My legs still hurt.

I pricked up my ears.

My gums are swollen.

My joints ache.

My back still hurts.

Those are my pants.

What are my responsibilities?

I'm looking for my keys.

My hands are tied.

Those pens are mine.

Where are my clothes?

I want to wash my hands.

I washed my hands.

They're all mine.

They're not mine.

These are mine.