I have brown deer's eyes, an exquisite excess of writings,and idealistic dreams. I occupy corners and the canopy with the same frequancy as a ghost occupys the house he or she is haunting. I hate violence and prejeduce and the demise of justice; I love trees and peace,snow and tealights,the aftertaste of rain and bittersweet beauty, all forms of art.

Writing is what I breath,bleed,cry. I am working on fifith unpublished novel,and adamantly,stoicly,venerbly trying to not think about my fourth,which I gave to some agent-y guy recently. (Thinking of said makes me hyperventalate,turn blue like a macaw,and instinctively try desperately to find somewhere to hide.)

I don't like profiles. I don't like writing them. They make me feel concieted,and they make me clumsey,make me stumble over words that normally lie flat and smooth like paving stones.