Our own created personalities.
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Grete the Naive

Joana has the

sixth sense


Daisy wants to be a monk


William the cat-talker

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People call me a poet. Some call me an artist, a creative. A writer. My mom doesn’t call me anyhow, she just smiles and strokes my ginger hair. My dad doesn’t have a clue of what I’m doing in life, neither he tries to understand. Sometimes, during gloomy Sunday dinnertime, he asks me if I’m doing fine with money. Because being 32 is just the right age to get such questions from your parents.