When reality suffuses our castle in the air, the yearning resumes its poisoned trail, weighing the heart. fogging the mind.

Typing is akin to using an Enigma machine, especially if I over analyze the keyboard...

What was supposed to be a four-day weekend of editing my story, ended up being a basement flooding nightmare.

Purchasing WWII love letters leads to thoughts of what we’ve lost and how no one writes letters anymore.

A 4AM sketch of Cupid and Psyche stalls as Cupid’s face won’t take its intended form. Each attempt produces a different man, one that forces the illustration for to follow a face I didn’t choose.