Monday:2AM In a state of bubo a leaden itch begins where the cacophony ends, dragging its obsidian skin of molten lava against the gravity, as if a metronome ticking through the earth's shoulder plates peeling back the illusion of...

Laying bare me quill, he wound up and touched me again on the noggin with a cuticle. No sharp edge of a blade, just the soft, rounded push of a finger, a blunt reminder of the body behind the...

The world outside moves in blurs of heat waves but here, the air is chill in a cool corner as the plate arrives, of a simple, a simple rye bread with a pale, smooth spread of Benedictine and cucumber...