I Write the Busted Stuff

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.