When the morning fog chills the air I walk through cobbled street. When the fading sun casts his blood across the sky I watch from mountaintops. When the first leaf curls, withers and crumbles I recover myself where it falls. It is in the beauty of autumn, not spring, that I find myself, for I am where the dead things are.

Sometime writer

writing. poetry. web design. playing guitar. reading. photography. music. piercings. stars. tattoos. storms. films. spells. art.