It isn't that I'm depressed, or going through an existential crises, or that I'm morbidly nihilistic, right now. It's that I'm just . . . done. I found my answers to the big philosophical life questions,

I'm bored of the scenery, the looks There's only seven story books Written for children, with basic plots How can this be all that was brought? I yearn for more, and yet I fear A Turn of the next page,

I probably should have done this post before the others, but I think it follows my unique pattern of unorthodox behavior. I'll be fairly blunt, up front, and honest as I can be without revealing too many

" S o m e t i m e s A l w a y s " T h i s i s m y s t u d i o , w h e r e I w o r k . Y o u ' r e w e l c o m e t o l o o k a r o u n d , t a k e a t o u r . I l e a s e t h e s p a c e w i t

It was a Thursday afternoon in April on Mars. Last Thursday, to be precise. Autumn, when the chill air was harshest, with scattered tornadoes across the hilly plains. The burnt ombre and rust red dust