I occupy a small corner of the world that I have come to call home. I prefer monogamy in outings and I am eternally tired amongst a crowd. There is no one place to which I feel I belong, and although I suffer some emotional difficulties as a result, I am happiest this way. I have made geographically scattered friends with whom I mostly keep in touch; but even those that have drifted beyond reach I still cherish in that secret, nameless part of me. I am most stimulated by quiet chatter, (unconventionally) pretty words, and stirring strangers. Memories and daydreams sustain me: I love gazing out of windows, reading books under a mild sun, and writing letters that talk about simple things that touch. I see romance in every aspect of the world: the quiet breath of those asleep, the quickening steps of strangers in the rain, and that forgotten sock beneath the bedside table. The lack of order in my life is what makes me smile. The lack of rightness in humanity is what makes me cry. And the lack of perfection in your world is what makes me move nearest. I am forever in love with natural beauty, the quiet breath of my son as he snuggles into me at the break of dawn and the narrow roadbeds of that remote city I was born in.
A note for those who choose to befriend me: Some of my posts include an element of erotica/vivid sexual descriptions. If you find my occasional discussion about my sexual habits/body parts offensive, please refrain from adding me to your friends list.