A freelance writer with a grounding in life. I am fresh from  the Bradford gutter and still reeking of life. I have no cigarettes left and my boots are torn. I have one hand on the pen and the other rests in the palm of considerate correctitude and grace. I have shredded the page since a child. The nib and the parchment have rallied once for me and then against. The bottle is empty yet still clinks along with the chain of my legacy. Society and grace alike suggest I need a different paper, rectangular in shape adorned with heckling Monarchs and Presidents. My wallet is barren and my plastic; redundant. I come with Twistian bowl in cupped hands asking only for more.