A Harsh, Nigh-Magical Rant
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.
But, also, enough of that pretentious idiocy. This is a rough-around-the-edges poetry book, not a freakin' work of art.
Special thanks to Conner, who makes me do things that I love doing, which I would otherwise not do, because I am an idiot. And for the cover art. What, you think I made that? Please.