Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.

Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.

I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists

I'm a modern mountebank - I believe in Physiognomy - after all, we are in control of our face - it's the map of where we've been.

Each heart is made of a different stone - no two feel alike nor break the same way.

Authority is the unmistakeable tone in the voice of a true writer.

I love it when the dark bottle of night spills out, and the Moon writes in chalk about us.