A riddle wrapped in an enigma skewered to a stack of papers with a knife rusted by years of condensation, I like to keep the mystery alive and let my writing speak for me.

You won’t find me in the usual places, you can’t hear me over the noise, you won’t be able to shelter me, and you can’t break me. I live under the moon, I howl into the wind, I let the rain fall on me and I bend like a tree.