My hands—one holds a quill, the other holds a bouquet of anesthesia with ghost of a whisper, leaving no prints of my epitaph. Spilling whiskey on my words, drowning in ink, listening to the raven caw a guacamole, with...

With a pulse of cello and scent of cognac,a lingering want as the moon drags tides, like a metronome with fingers.Then—silence—the breath before the fall, like a piccolo whispering a symphony,with a single note.Exhaling the taste of yesterday's tobacco,...