Ian Cumings is a human. He lives in Colorado and spends all his time walking around, writing, and drawing. He works out occasionally, and goes clubbing, but prefers to stay in and work on crafting fiction and exploring his imagination. He hopes you are human too, or, if not, he hopes you are friendly, whatever you are.
He was but a breath, a simple creation of some greater existence. Nothing implied, nothing necessary, nothing required. Just a breath. As was the face. And is the face. And always will be the face.
