An Exercise in Literary Thought

This is my invitation.

An invitation to the slip between depravity, and the fading edge of youth- where lies a truth that can only be expressed through the natural flow of voice. As of late, my voice has become progressively dark, and delighting in irony. And why not? These are after all, progressively dark, and ironic times.

So, come one, come all! Grab your poison and curl up by the fire where we’ll drown in the pool of my imagination, and sink deep into its despair.


*Painting by: Arnold Böcklin, “Self Portrait With Death Playing the Fiddle”, 1872