I have less than a handful of serious aspirations for my life, and the one that gravitates nearest to my heart would be to read as many books as possible. I like to envision myself residing in a tiny dwelling somewhere far from, or closer to, where I am right now; in proximity to NOTHING except fresh air, solitude and nature. Four walls, embraced by A4 sized grainy black and white still-frames of assasinated gay rights and black human rights activists, noir French goddesses, opiniated linguists, philosophers, cognitive scientists, feminists, sardonic lyricists with punk blood, homosexual playrights, the modern day’s working class genius and, of-course, extinct or near-extinct creatures. Several glorious rooms will be dedicated to my ever-growing book collection, housing the souls of Oscar Wilde, Albert Camus, Simone de Beauvoir, Jean Rhys, Louis-Ferdinand Céline and the like. Oh, and several cats. Of-course.