Here

There's nothing beyond this fortress made of warm sheets, naughty whispers and fire. Our hair is tangled in an eternal morning where neck bites and moans satiate our hunger. Your chuckle is water in this white desert of silk. These fucking butterflies are devouring me from the inside.

Náyade

Con sólo mirarla podía imaginarse su olor a sábanas calientes y a flores frescas, a noche embriagadora. Envidiaba el poder para congelar personas, agitar corazones y mojar bragas que tenían sus traviesos ojos verdes. Sentía ese tipo de atracción indebida que, al ser políticamente incorrecta, era deliciosamente excitante. Ella tenía la lluvia de París pintada en la cara.

Hi there

   I feel like a shy  virgin about to open her legs with scare. I've always wanted to write: stories that take place in worlds that never existed used to comfort and gently swing me in my lower times when I was younger, and writting feels like returning the favor. 
However, I don't want people to know who I am. Writting feels like undressing your soul and showing your naked fragile feelings to the world. There'll always be people willing to laugh at you, I've lernt it the hard way, and maybe I'm just not ready yet or maybe I'm just a bit coward, so I'd keep this secret. I don't even want people to read me, I guess I just write for myself about whaterver comes to my mind. This is how I'll introduce myself I guess.

The "Floating Lotus" thing has a meaning, but we'll get to that later.