Alice: I'm eighteen and if you feel the need to get in contact with me you can do so through my public e-mail address.

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When you push my belly button, I will bend backwards and show you the parade of fairies living in my eyes. I shake down fakers. My mismatching words will blow bullet holes through your back screen door. And we'll pretend not to notice. If it fixes, I bite? In my other life, I was an answering machine. My age is fresh fruit picked from an orchard. Slather on a glue and wrestle in a tub of scraps and spare parts, and you might come across my love for writing. I keep a minor key in my back pocket for when I feel a song in the corner of my mouth and a crayon in my front pocket for when I sneeze my heart out on paper. I roll music up in a paper and light it on fire, savouring it's drifts and fumes. My life can be described in a single word spray-painted across your mattress. I sometimes get lost, but someone always finds their way back to me with a half-smile and a bundle of prepackaged iloveyou's. And somebody, somebody always loves me. On a cloudy day.