"An Oxford man!" He was incredulous. "Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit."
"Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man."
As not all that glitters is gold, nor does a man who wears a pink suit cease to be an Oxford man. And as simple as that, I do not stop being an boheme reader, an excentric traveller, a quirky dancer and an even more strange woman-to be, even if I hide under classy clothes embelished with simple cuts and delicate tear-drop earrings.
I pose in the cold, I stay up late in the night and I dream of art: any form of it, from the newest novel I imagine writing to the next post I share on my blog.
