Another turn of the moon… Or sun… Or something…

Another turn of the sun, or rather us around the sun... How does it work again? I'm not sure. I can't remember. With every passing year and the reminder that I was birthed into this chaotic promenade of mewling cruelty I'm reminded of not only my mortality, but my own fragility. Without fail, every year…

The World is Ending… Still…

When you think of an author... a writer, what's the first thing that pops into your head? Some fantastical, illustrious, livin' large, untouchable, all-knowing saint? You know, the kinds that have problematic views on current issues, the ones that don't talk very much in detail about their writing process (because it's a very private thing!)…