My understanding of the world starts with 26 letters in millions of combinations. I never asked to be a pile of bones at three hundred thoughts a minute, on a slow-burning globe. Full of people who hear each other but don't really hear each other. But now that I'm here, I want to make the most of it. I want to dance in every rain shower, eat fresh fruit by the sea, sing, play, fall hard and start before I get up. Because despite everything, I don't worry until I'm out of words. When I sit for hours staring at a blank, white sheet of paper. When the letters dance around my head, but I can't use them in the right letters. Only then will my courage sink into my shoes. Do you want what is a writer without a story? A song without melodies, the first summer breeze without hair to blow through? Maybe I should look for that. The never-ending search for things that are too beautiful, too big, too fantastic and too tasty. The search for things I can't describe in words
