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I Write the Busted Stuff
- by Steve B Howard
- Jan 12, 2020
- 1 min read
It is always the tone. Sad broken ghosts and demons that live somewhere in my jumble of neurons.
I give them the pen and let them run until their blood is clotted on the page.
A cloudy Tuesday on the cusp of a new decade. Tourists and fools clattering along the sidewalks as I sit, coffee steaming and cursor blinking.
Stoking the flames with dead spirits and cackling ghouls has been my twisted muse from the start.
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