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.

A flower of imperfection, I am, waning with the passing seasons.   Springtime flowerets budding to summertime flowering.   This fall time senescence to wintertime death.   Black flower of psychosis, withering in bloom and beauty withering.   The season of fresh hallucinations is indeed upon me!

Ahoy! There she is! In formal times, gracefully gliding across the glassy sea. Her figure so stout and proud. On a voyage so resolute, unwavering against the coming storms and serpents of the deep blue sea. Her sails swelled by the gift of...