I am astounded what I can write whilst I'm watching the world end in fiction by way of mass zombie infection. At least the dog lived. If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die. "Twelfth Night", I.1.1-3 She wonders how long he can continue on like this. She watches him, guides him, yet, he cannot see it for himself. He is humming a song that is unfamiliar, yet the melody is clear and lingering. It permeates the air, hanging... read more
