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"​It is cold outside. I look out of the window into the streets and the alleys and they are empty of people, but full of life. There is something magical about winter. I stick my hand out the window and the white snowflakes fall slowly on it. The air is crisp and there is a light breeze that blows the tiny hairs on the back of my hand back and forth. My skin gets all goose-pimply at the touch of that cold and dark magic of the night that plays outside my window, so far away from home ..."

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Fragment of Perseo, a story I cannot bring myself to finish​

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