I can't quite say why I started writing, even though I struggle with reading. I don't know, it just happened. It happened late: when I wrote my first piece of literature that went beyond a song lyric, a poem, or a sketch, I was just shy of thirty. I thought to myself: let's see if it's possible to put a stop to my temperament's inclination to take it easy for a day or two and to wrestle some sort of prose lump from the constant train of thought that I usually enjoy and occasionally suffer from. The piece was called "Ten to Eighty-Five" and, as far as I remember, it was about the universe and my pants. I can't say more because I would sweat like after eating a heavily spiced Asian dish if I had to look at the text again.