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I´m a writer!
I'm a liar!

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Live fast. Die Young. Be Wild. And Have Fun.

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I was in the winter of my life, and the men I met along the road were my only summer. At night I fell asleep with visions of myself dancing and laughing and crying with them. Three years down the line of being on an endless world tour and my memories of them were the only things that sustained me, and my only real happy times. I was a singer, not a very popular one, who once had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet, but upon an unfortunate series of events, saw those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again sparkling and broken. But I didn’t really mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is. When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I had been living, they asked me why. But there’s no use in talking to people who have a home, they have no idea what it’s like to seek safety in other people, for home to be wherever you lie your hea...
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What it costs

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If you ever get the chance to love a person who knows grief, do not let them go You see, the thing about grief is that it’s not exclusive it consumes life and it taints everything a little grey It won’t hesitate to remind you that everyone and everything you love will disappear some day But I’ve found that the people who carry grief love with a fierceness that no one else knows  They understand what’s at stake because they’ve had to let someone go  So they remember the little things and they show up when it counts They know that life is rare you won’t have to spell it out So don’t take for granted the people who know loss for they know more about love because they know what it costs - Whitney Hanson
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to all the Hans Hubermann

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To most people, Hans Hubermann was barely visible. An un-special person. Certainly, his painting skills were excellent. His musical ability was better than average. Somehow, though, and I’m sure you’ve met people like this, he was able to appear as merely part of the background, even if he was standing at the front of a line. He was always just there. Not noticeable. Not important or particularly valuable. The frustration of that appearance, as you can imagine, was its complete misleadence, let’s say. There most definitely was value in him, and it did not go unnoticed by Liesel Meminger. (The human child—so much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.) She saw it immediately. His manner. The quiet air around him. When he turned the light on in the small, callous washroom that night, Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father’s eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver. Like soft silver, melting. Liesel, upon seeing those eyes, understood that Hans Hubermann...
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