Hello dear future. I started to give life to my story and its characters as some form of refuge for myself. I did what I had to do. It was somewhat instinct and what I write now might be the exegesis of that, years after contemplation: I saw no way for myself to be able to connect to others. I was torn apart, and no one seemed to be interested in dirty rags. I was too much work. Or would have been. And I agree. I was alone and it was either working on myself or getting rid of me and – yes – it was a lot of work. Only some time later did I start to realise that I was giving my problems to said characters. And because, as I assumed, no one would be interested to read a story where problems just disappear with a flick of the finger, I had to start thinking about solutions. Stringent solutions. Nowadays I consider my intention refined. I write to offer others hope. Good, if they just have fun. That’s, of course, fine as well. I may be (or might have been, when you read this) a fool to
