I'm 18. I grew up in a quiet corner of Estonia - among thick pine trees and long, dark winters. I ran between the trees, in the summer I dived into icy lakes just to feel like I was alive. I wouldn't trade this region for anything.

I love thunderstorms - the ones that make the windows shake and the lights go out. The smell of rain on hot asphalt and that silence a second before the first drop. I drink coffee black, strong and bitter - like my humor. At night I wander through old streets, looking for hidden staircases and forgotten courtyards.

I'm still looking for myself - outside of school, outside of other people's expectations. It turns out dirty, noisy and somehow beautiful. I work part-time at a small bookstore, write poetry that no one reads, and photograph too many sunsets.

False. Empty talk about the weather when no one cares. Those who write and disappear an hour later. Boiled carrots are a nightmare. When they say “smile”, as if I owe someone something. And the crowd: if there are more than ten people, I’m already looking for a way out.