Silenced save for the winter wind that whistle pastthe pane, a text of grim, unblinking fact. The floor,a simple mind would call wood, a canvas of dustaltered, snaring the crippled mind. A blend ofnarcistic behavior, saved for the silence...

In this graveyard of memories, I wander, cloaked in the twilightof November. The breeding stones of my mind held within. Mybones, threadbare of the moth's wings. Now a silhouette falling from the grave. Walking the shadows in an orchard...

Across town. The streets of Waycross, Georgia, on the Okefenokeee as the streets ran cold with the torrents of rain's insanity bleeding down. Inside, she was stirring the Burgoo pot. "Y'all ain't never seen crawdads pissed like this,"Outside, the...