Like an abacus tallying crimes, counting steps to the gallows of insomnia listening to my breath exhale, memories I have slain,counting steps like a pendulum do, echoing the silence of the rain dripping through my mind's filter, unraveling before...

Time stutters and stalls. Here, the climate is not a season of pale lichens and emerald moss. They do not drop their leaves in fear of the coming frost; they wear their persistence like armor, a jagged skyline of...