When growing up, a teacher—Miss Dorothy asked me to keep a journal with me. This tome lies flat on my desk, bent corners and monochrome composition of the binding is slowly fading, as everyone I know. When looked inside—filled with undaunted words, some left in half, some in full. A release from a stressful day, I could write about whatever I chose, flipping thin pages of this rusty book, I could see my futile attempts to assassinate a fancy prose, I would try so hard on a sunny day resting on my squeaking wooden chair.
