I think everybody has a secret life.

All those moments, those memories. Everything that we are, compressed in just two or three kilos of paper — the weight of a human heart.

The battle of good and evil reduced to a fat woman standing in front of a chocolate shop, saying, Will I? Won’t I? in pitiful indecision.

Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

Like a domestic cat, purring on the sofa by day, but by night, a strutting queen, a natural killer, disdainful of her other life.

I'm insatiably curious.

I have an advanced degree in procrastination and another one in paranoia.