I started writing this cycle to keep from losing my mind. Reality was too cruel, so I poured my thoughts onto the screen, sharing what I felt, escaping into fantasy worlds. I write about a wasteland — not because everything is dead, but because even at the end of the world, you can still find something alive.

My stories are messy. They're weird. They're human. They're my little inner demons. My alter ego. The masks we all wear.

Here's a scene that captures it:

"It fell from the sky like a green comet. A small dragon. Too small for a dragon. It tried to stand, fell again, then lifted one claw and rubbed its head — like a child who just fell off a swing. Don Juan muttered, 'Great. A falling lizard.' But I looked at its eye. It looked at my medallion. And I understood: this was no accident. This was fate. Or irony. Or both."

I write to see fairy tales around me when everything is falling apart.

What matters to you? What are you looking for in your wasteland? challenge::https://yodayo.com/posts/alices-3-000-collects-challenge-precious