Sometimes I weave my way through stacks of books and streaks of dust-filled light and emerge from my room. Sometimes I even work my way past characters and fantasies and emerge from my own head.
My skin is made of paper. Ink flows through my veins.
Writer of fiction, poetry, and other random things.
Staff writer/reviewer at Cubed3.com
Faded Pages 
Best wishes for you,
Kind regards,
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