My name is Zick. I have pulled myself out of a dark, terrible recess in the eternal abyss of the introverted soul to participate in the community you all have created here. In the past I have been active on internet forums, but at some point fell off the face of the Earth, into deep space hibernation, and have been estranged ever since. I know few fellow writers in my day-to-day life, so I am extremely pleased to virtually meet you all. As we extend our arms to shake hands I attempt to get a firm grip and solidify a decent first impression, but the skin of our conjoined palms seem slippery and the hold is unbalanced. Our hands bob up and down awkwardly for a few seconds and when we let go my hand comes away moist. Is this my sweat? I ask myself nervously. My favourite authors are Kafka and Dostoyevsky, I live in Canada, am 25 years old, and I write music, poetry and am currently dipping my feet in the vast, deep ocean of story telling. I cannot swim, it is terrifying. I am currently on a farm seclusion vacation on the opposite side of my country, thus have even fewer people to discuss writing with. Anyone is free to drop me a line, ask for an opinion, really anything. I feel detached and I want to be consumed, amalgamated into the whole. Writing is all I can remember ever wanting to do, although I am not terribly good at it. You are beautiful and I hope we can be friends.