I'm often unsure of who I am, but I always know for certain what I am not.
I was born in the wrong era, in the wrong country, under the wrong circumstances. Now all that's left is to make the most out of the hand I've been dealt.
To escape into the world, I write. Writing is my time machine, takes me to the precise time and place I belong.
Sometimes, on a whim, I'll do something impulsive and I wonder if my unborn twin lives in my head, only to poke at my brain at random times.
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