I was drawing and creating stories before I could walk. My dreams are precious, bad and good, each their own unique story, enshrouded in the oddities of the childhood brain. 
I love the words, I'll be the first to admit I'm not to good at storyline, perhaps because I don't like things happening without reason and therefore, whether the story is fantasy or set in the real world, I always incorporate a realism into it. 
My artwork however, it has always been sporadic. Impressionist. One day I might create the beginnings of something beautiful, another day and all I conceive is canvas or paper dripping with colours and strokes that look back at me with scorn. 
I consider my hands the favourite piece of my body, for they so fashion my works in writing and in paint. 
I am in love with the bone structure, the skeletal system, I love poetry. I read it out loud, loving the taste of it on my tongue. 
I'm afraid this has become quite a ramble, although I think I'm happy with said information. I am sixteen and I am currently writing a book - quite a large one I must admit - and hoping that it can be published this year. Shall see how that turns out, in the mean time, I've decided to play with some things off hand, and if you've read this much, I hope you enjoy them. 
Adios!