A Harsh, Nigh-Magical Rant (A Poetry Collect...
It's much easier not to read this than to read it. Actually, it would require infinitely less effort, so my advice is definitely don't read it. If you're like me, though, you have a fear of time and its effects, and think you can murder it in little increments by using it amiss. If that's the case, then this is it. It's yours. The result of 100-ish sleepless nights arranged in some unruly manner, a labyrinth of sparks and odd ideas that might not amount to much in the end but once seemed entirely profound. These are a few of the words that have been scurrying around the dimly-lighted alleyways of a small nobody's imagination, tearing up the floor and throwing spray paint on the walls. Here is something of my selfish introspection, for your self, for your inspection. It is your scythe to hold, to sweep against the sands of time. Imagine that they do not shift back faster than you sweep.
Special thanks to Conner, who makes me do things that I love doing, which I would otherwise not do, because I am an idiot.
Additional special thanks also to Conner for the cover art. It looks better than it did in my head, but that's fine, I guess.
Updates will be posted twice a week, for an eventual total of 100 parts.
"Happy reading, and I love you guys." --James Dashner
"What if we had zucchini for legs?" --Graham Christian Ganahl