There is nothing like being twenty-two. As much as you want to sometimes when the days get hard, you will never be twenty-two again. Not because you won’t fall in love, be happy, be reckless, but because you will know better.

You can tell everything you truly know about a person from the view from their window.

Eyes closed, head back, neck tall. My fingers move across the keyboard. They dance. They skate. They follow over the aluminum and stainless keys.  It’s been a long time since I just wrote. Just let the words empty out through my finger tips. Tap tap tap. The stream of consciousness made famous by the great Virginia Woolf. When I moved to London, I was inebriated with the amount of information and culture I was learning every single day. I was inspired. It was then when I learned that the way that I write is okay, and maybe even appreciated? Did I need to have outlines and plans? Or could I just write and find a way to make it into a story?

But what would happen if one day, everyone's bubbles just suddenly... popped? 

She walked through the streets once more, nearly missing every beat. She held her chin high, still smiling, still poised. For twenty-two years she has lived twenty-two lives. The only way you would know her age is if you looked at her hands. Young and soft. Like butter.