I do not know anymore if you are dead or alive. Your moonlit face, no more can I recognize!   Your eyes are twin suns arisen, sometimes manic, sometimes depressed. Hibernating beneath your eyelids, over your nightscape a brilliant aurora!   As manic as the midnight sun, as depressed as...

My dreamy world of writing is a graveyard shrouded in fog. Where each story has a grave, each grave has a character. These living, breathing corpses with open eyes, raspy voices and souls, gaze on through my eyes.