Category: Prose

‘…Suicide’ I ask myself, ‘how can there be suicide if Saint Peter himself has granted me entry?’ It’s a brain twister I’ll grant you that, but in having willingly undertaken

The commotion of life surrounds me as silhouettes in the shadows. I see their form, I hear their breath on the wind and still I am alone. Wandering through a

Janus looks inward to reckon with its past, only to gaze into itself, and spy the now vast, expanse of its yesterdays and the searing of its mask, each doorway