Consorts, walking the mausoleums at dusk—boots clicking against the cobbles where the dead have voices conversing with the granite, each stone a magnetof breathless secrets to honor infamy when one erases history, listening to theechoing of California fornication, riding...

From the bark of a sequestered oak,my tome-shanty, my wares,I never laid claimed to be a synonymor any other glamor to fame,by writing perfect words.Just a bookshop keeper with a mellow heartand a bobbin for a mind, spinning prose,poetic...

...bound by sweet dark music we spin,our own cocoon as sleepers stumbled,every step a dance, souls in thrall,tortured, but ready to forgive, the agony of it all...