...a face of tragedy with a dark slate of mime once a canvas now a wandering soul of a ghost colder than a cask of teardrops aged in the dark's abyss hanging from the sinews of his eccentricity. Now...

A ghostly, hollow, but unmistakable "aye." Settling into the marrow of bones void of breath, led by the baton ofdeath rustling the pages of worn dust breaking the silence of the sticky gums now resting in a cocoon of...

Many a winter bring a whispered chillof promises, a silken-back of silveredleaves. Yet, in the barren tableautrees remain beneath the endless palesky of melancholy internal hibernation.

Bruising the marigolds, the sound of ticking emanating from everywhere and nowhere. Echoing from the cornices of my mind a maddening note. Cloaked in the night as dark is my piccolo>, tapping the thunder...ticking. Sloshing through the crescendo. Bruising...