The soul was not a chamber, nor a crystal, but a geography of perpetual descent. It was the vast, subterranean architecture of a sleeping mind—a labyrinth constructed not of stone, but of ossified regret and the heavy, sepulchral dust of ages. The...

The hoodoo hung heavy, a miasma of bad luck and cheap gin that clung to the city's underbelly like a sautéed rubber chicken in a skid-row diner. The air was thick enough to chew, a greasy film of broken...

Bead of dew on canvas wet,  the longest blade of grass.With a hint of deep blue,  carried on falling leaves. Unfolding a silent promise,  the sun's gentle painter- Over the horizon's caress.