Surat Lozowick thinks he knows a lot more than he actually does (after all, he's human). Perhaps he should have listened years ago when a drunk man in Ireland shouted to him and his friends, “You're drunk lads, go home!”
Surat hadn't had a drop to drink, but he was intoxicated by the joy and madness of life, and he was already home, discovering the world in the company of friends. He's traveled all his life, from the first flight to France at age two. He travels because the world is rich and generous and he is a beggar, holding his hands out and asking to give.
Writing is the ground beneath his feet; his coy lover; the fire in his veins, burning from his fingers. As words devour him from within, he looks for others to warm with the bleeding fire. He writes about the sense and nonsense of life, his own and those of people he meets and seeks out. He knows there's a story in every interaction, waiting to be told.
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