The more I write – of my novel, of my poetry, of my silly thought about books, of detailed description of Louis de Pointe du Lac – the more assured I am that if not so called quill and ink, I would not be alive anymore.
Quill and ink. The reason to wake up at morning and the reason to feel that tiny love for myself. Because I created the worlds in which I live. Earth is falling down, but my own still spins and blooms with white flowers.