Grew up loving sky and the smell of old library books. Stubborn. Likes seeing odd numbers but writing even ones. Teenager. Addicted to reading and that weightless millisecond on a plane half grounded and half suspended in flight. In search of cities with skyscrapers and flickering neon lights and empty street intersections, open fields and open skies. Proud. Wants to stand there beneath the yellow streetlights that blot out the sky and wish for the edge of the world anyways. Hopeful pessimist. Aches at sunrises and sunsets, twilight and dawn, freeways and deserted playgrounds. Climbs trees. Cynical. Too often remembers scraped knees and see-saws, slides and peppermint curiousity and imagination, squeaky red tricycles and hop scotch, sandboxes and waxy crayons and jump ropes and storybooks. Has frayed secondhand dreams and splintered chalk on the sidewalk for words. Laughs too much. Lost in this big, crazy world but hopes to one day dance with closed eyes and open heart. Walks on railroads. Scribbles poetry on dark, rough pavements. Naive. Longs for innocence and childhood. Unsure. Loves the wind and the rain, sun and moon and stars.
Believes in words and you.

Undefined.

I am a dreamer, not a writer, but I have an imagination, so let's pretend.

Returns reviews.

http://mcrw.com/lovenotes/dialoguedemo.htm

http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/topic3746.html