The house was as dilapidated as the soul of its owner. Rust permeates the roof, dirty unkempt windows with finger-stains of urchins who dare venture the territory gave away what the townspeople knew all along: that Mr. Gragasin, seventy-eight years of age, is slowly dying of an unnamed malady. Inside, walls which were once white now have a...

Today I have nothing to write, but I will write on anyway. Finding the right words is like diving headlong into an unknown ocean and surrendering to the whim of the waves. I have danced in the ocean. Flailing my arms and looking upwards at the blinding light of the sun, I am unsure if I am in...