The blank pages always take me to a new world, one in which everything is possible if one can dream uninterrupted and uncensored. Gliding my pen along the paper, I answer the invitation that I need so much with every heartbeat… what am I going to create today? If I look back on this moment a month later, will I see the point where my creation of a character, place or room changed? Grew? Originated? It’s in those forgotten times that something big happens, but leaves me mainly with a vague idea of a shift, not a sledgehammer experience. It’s a wedge like a piece of foam that slides itself into my awareness little by little. Once I find myself thinking of the characters while doing something else, they’ve gotten to me and I am compelled to write, dream, seek. Knowing that so many possibilities exist, I wish I could be immortal in order to have time to capture them all. It saddens me to think that even one of them might float away, ephemeral as a soap bubble that bursts after showing its colors to everyone. I want to put each one on a stand and create gazing balls in the garden, walking among them to find and renew my inspiration.