Although I am in the present day struggling to populate my 4000 word due-in-less-than-a-week essay with worthy sentences, I can but witstfully remember the days (all ages ending in 'een') when output wasn't the problem.
There were many masterworks from that period (including an illustrated two-volume opus, narrated by horses) which unfortunately has been lost to time and my haphazard manner of moving belongings from house to house. I live in hope that it might still turn up one day (along with an erotic comic I penned aged 12, with the aid of a pilfered Playboy and some Fashion Tracing Plates).
In the meantime, I can but offer you this sketch I doodled aged 13, as an expression of my nihilism and contempt for the measly trappings of life such as Maths Homework.
Hark! Behold, a beautiful-albeit-misunderstood young woman lies dead! An Angel retrieves her soul which has the misfortune of not only being Dead, but also Tired. Its shoulders wilt with existential ennui, its facial features are blurred at the futility of the shabbyness of both Life and Afterlife. The Weight and Oppression of the world is heavy upon them all.