A masterpiece written from my editor and good friend, the one and only Dominick Montalto. If any of you guys and gals who’re reading this are looking for an (awesome) editor, you know who to contact now.
I never slept with you in life, but I sleep with you in death. Every winter for the last decade, from the first days of the New Year, when daylight suffocates in the stranglehold of early darkness to the late days of March, passing vigil on the day of your death and the day of your birth, I seem buried beneath the memory of you, the way a country town lies dormant, nay paralyzed, beneath the fallout of Nature’s own version of nuclear winter.
For three months each year I sleep with your ghost, my restless heart decaying in the silent knowledge that I still feel you after all these years; when you seem to have unchained all the others, you seem unable to give up the ghost with me, at least not in the card catalogue of my memory….READ MORE