My story is not a creation from a creative mind but rather from tangled, spontaneous thoughts of a drunken wanderer.

I am sitting on my bed, back leaning against the white-painted cemented wall, staring blankly outside the window, anticipating for rain to fall from gray sky.
I am not a writer. I am a soul yearning to write, write anything the mind can conceive and comprehend or maybe beyond what the mere human eyes can capture, what tongue seemingly cease to articulate, what hands fail to grasp.

I am not ambitious. I am a dreamer, half-awake, half-drifting. Forgive my audacity.

I am writing a story, a story I have not yet drafted. It will be born from scraps and tins. Or perhaps this is not a story, but the story of people, of emotions, of character, of something hidden beneath, of life and reality, and maybe even death, be it glorious or not.