My life's is erratic, having danced in Ibiza, cleaned horse manure, and just passed the NY Bar exam as a sample, and all with the same enthusiasm. The unrelenting party about me is my habit of drafting half sentences, half stories, playing with the taste of words. I feel that I write even when I do not make any record of the thought at all. I write when I talk. Beneath my c.v. of arbitrary interests and pursuits, there is one thing tying me together so I don’t devolve into a hopeless sack of ideas and questions, and that is this.