Erin, a tall thin girl with long chestnut hair that flowed down to her hips, had curled up in her favourite armchair with a thread bare throw draped over her lap and began reading one of her favourite books; It was battered, dog-eared and had coffee stains on the cover and the spine was creased like the wrinkles of an old man, it was not a book on a fairy tale romance but that of an adventure story. The story gave a smokescreen in which she could vanish into away from the traffic sounds and the tap of the rain that drummed against her window; she could smell the rich spices in India as she walked along the open market, she could almost see the vivid colours of the silk scarfs and hear the foreign banter of market holders and their customers. It was only until the final pages were read did she return from her daze, stretch out the kinks that had etched in her neck, discarded the throw and place her book from the chair she had once sat in. She tip-toed over the floorboards towards her window and stood on an old wooden stool to look outside at the rain and the busy London traffic. It always interested her what people did everyday; she'd just sit and watch them while thinking of the little stories that formed all these characters that once passed her by on the street. She touched her old bookshelf which sat beside the small round window she had looked out of. It was filled with old battered books she had collected from trips abroad or in local book stores. But on the last shelf, was her manuscripts and journals, she had placed hap-hazardly; each one collecting dust after another failed attempt. It was odd that each piece seemed to tear a chunk from her, till she had withdrawn from the hustle and bustle she had once consumed like junk food. Till she had silenced herself except on paper.