"Things are sweeter when they're lost..." [ F. Scott Fitzgerald ] I was born in the spring, in the crossroads between hazy city lights and the borders of white oaks and mountain-laurel. When I was three, I was taken to be raised among sweet tea (to this day, I still hate it) and pine trees. I lived when I was younger. I knew the world, and she bent before me, shaping herself into something so beautiful and so strange. She folded me into herself, and I succumbed to her secrets. I was content. And then I grew up. As the years sped towards me, I realized that the ignorance of my family (who had already grown up), and the shallow voices in my head were one and the same, and I began losing the only thing I had ever held onto: my world. I became sick, ill with the transition of Creativity to Silence. But I found a cure. Here. Writing. The ribbons wrap around my brain like a cocoon of sweet, pure bliss, and I find that I can escape for several hours a day to help myself recover. Won't you help me too?