I enjoy writing. Ironically, it seems to silence my mind for a while. The words in my head become worlds I can only visit in dreams - fictional people, fictional landscapes, fictional lives. I like to pretend I exist somewhere other than here.

I like city lights. And cigarette smoke. And rain on Sundays. And strangers who look lost. I like old pianos and making bracelets out of beads. I like meeting people who ask questions.