Neil, you were six weeks dead when I was born, the last hours of 1982. Almost thirty years have gone by since then. Driving through Wh...

March, 1941. The coast is a scribble. Stars are stored in a wooden box on my shelf. It is more black than white here. Like algebra but ...

At first I thought it might be comforting, another body breathing in the dark smelling spiced, content to be awake reading in the little...

Because the jugs spring from the mind of Mary (or is it the angel?) visible over the hills of the promising land, we begin ...

No rough verses, but like a surf‐tossed sailor wielding wisely his gaff‐rigged fore‐and‐aft sail, so shall I keep your favourite of Gre...

This story is about remembering and forgetting Not knowing where you are or if it's real But you can die with a martini ...