In fifty years or so, I’ll be dead. There will be no more tomorrows, not anymore. Most likely my body eaten by cancer, and then ravaged by fire. My remains scattered in a lonely cemetery, or perhaps kept on a mantelpiece in some tasteless urn. Maybe it’ll be sooner. Could be tomorrow, or next Thursday Read more

  The urge came about to take a break from writing. Maybe nail it on the head for a month. Working forty hours a week and writing for another thirty drains the life out of me. It’s what I love, but as the winter months draw in, being exhausted all the time isn’t my idea Read more

  The early hours. The late hours. Whatever you want to call them. They remind me of the first phases of love. They speak to me of mystery, of celestial bodies swimming around bonfires on cold November evenings. The mist that escapes our mouths. The warmth of linked fingers to the tune of Pink Floyd. Read more

  The romance of cold, somber evenings. The coming together of damned lovers as the world dissolves behind closed curtains. Others play out the same paths. Those familiar ways of being we all know so well. They’re told what’s expected of them, and they deliver every time. They do it without even knowing, and as Read more

Selfish lover, always needing the utmost devotion. I can’t sacrifice my art, you should know that by now. There’s nothing quite like the taste of your lips, or the way your hips feel against mine, but vision is something that can’t be compromised. There’s nothing to show for it, and the years have got behind Read more

As well as continuing to develop my novel, next year I’m planning to publish a book containing a collection of selected blog entries. Available in digital and physical form, it will house my own personal favourites, as well as those that have received the most fanfare. It’s a vanity project, but also a way of Read more

  Time. Words. The freedom of not being in a relationship, and the loneliness that inevitably follows. Solitude. The need to sever those ties, so stories have the space they need to breathe naturally. Neglecting lovers comes with the territory. A cruel bastard I am. A coward, more than likely. There have been several women Read more

  The colours of love like the beads of sweat that trickle down your thighs. The scent of war in my greasy hands and the taste of wet memories as headlights illuminate worn out figures with nowhere left to go. Writing takes me to an elevated state. Mix it with beer, and you’ve got the Read more