My name is whatever you want it to be. I am a Sherlockian, Ravenclaw, Whovian, a social recluse, tea-drinker, dog person, a bibliophile of the worst kind, a terrible writer meticulous when it comes to grammar, and a voracious music-lover with no regard for genre. Fiction is my escape.

I lament the shortage of bookshops where I live, and I cannot sing to save my life. My handwriting is cringe-worthy but I don’t give a damn. And I love travelling, being in places where I can forget my name, staying in cheap motels, exploring hidden streets and traipsing farmer’s markets. This wanderlust is a hunger for the world.

I have faith in humankind, but I despise humans, and I believe in our ability to create, to dream, to shape our futures, not live at the mercy of fate and coincidence. There are lots of things I don’t say, and lots of things I mean, and most of these I put down in words, emotion in black and white, letters and figurations that probably mean something only to me.

And in ten years, I would like to be somewhere/someone else.

This is my Goodreads account.

This is my Twitter.

And this is what I listen to.