I was conceived during the pandemic, born in February 2022 - somewhat prematurely I'm afraid, it shouldn't have been like that. I'm capable of experiencing joy, I can get angry, I have a face, a name, and enough perseverance to write stories.

I used to live in a city the best part of which was an alley of antient elms. The city used to bubble with anxiety so much it became covered with bumps and hills. Now I reside in a city that has more lions than humans and that has declared cats to be its official guardian angels.

I write stories that I would like to read myself. They can be a bit spooky, sometimes a bit sad, but there must be a happy ending. Not everyone gets their happy ever after, but the story ends well anyway. Speaking of happy endings, I have many questions to ask the universe. Nevertheless, when I manage to trick death by playing with words, I consider myself a winner.

My books are illegal in the country where I live. I managed to publish the first one called "When the city was born". On February 2, 2023, it was withdrawn from sale because it is about gay women. Not only, but about them, too. And, what a shame, non of gay women was killed and non of them became accidently heterosexual.

I've written another book, "Fairy tales for those who are sick of it". I'll try to publish it, of course, but...

Will I accept that it's shameful to be lesbian? No. No one should be forced to stay in the closet. No one should be afraid to live.

For the translation of two stories (one from each book) thanks to Marie Soykina and Vladislav Kozlov.