Our Stories

In dens over moss shrouded heaps, and corners without light where smoke still wafts from unlit doors in back alleys, the voices of quiet conspiritors murmur in the night. Bare lightbulbs cracked walls, concrete floor and dinge tinted shadows and teeth, shown in sly smiles and resting, lost on the cold damp earth. And outside where whispers riffle branch tips, sending the hanging drops to forest floor, to compost, to bed-- the solid ground regenerates. Then daylight, and our stories swirl through sunbeams after the rain, and scurry into undiscovered recesses waiting to lilt through dark and damp again.