I'm not interested in the modern, the brash, the comfortable, the touristic and the self-assured. You'll see me instead swooping around through those decrepit and derelict quarters where you can only hear voices and light traffic, the places filled with delicious tidbits of unintentional irony, the small, the faded, glory of the human.

Me? I'm a strange looking redheaded creature of Celtic extraction, a voracious writer, and insatiable linguist and keen teacher. I am contradictory yet constant. I am indeed a synaesthete, the word synaesthesia itself reminds me of a rolling scarlet.

I love:

- Empty cinema halls, where one can laugh, cry and - if the film is bad - make sarcastic asides to oneself without reprisals.

- The feeling of mastering knowledge.

- Voyages to nowhere

- The chord, Gm6 add11.

- When one wakes up too late and stretches out like a cat.

- The sound of slow-moving cars on stone-paved roads

- The universal strangeness of Sunday afternoons