Do you mind if I ask, now that I’m thinking of it: In 1962, when you were nothing more than a chip of graphite trapped inside a spare pencil lying on Steve Ditko’s desk, did you know? As you whispered affirmations of your existence, hoping he might hear you—might release you from your No. 2 prison, so that you could roam free on glossy paper—did you ever imagine what you would one day become?
Sara Solberg 
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