Current Residence: When I live in a place for more than a handful of months, I'll let you know.|
Former Residences: Montreal, QC
Los Angeles, CA
And various towns within Massachusetts
Some of my favorite songs.
Silk MountainIf it means anything to you, a girl named Shaley lived her life back when magic did too. Most would claim she’d been born of it, due to the color of her eyes and the quite supernatural feeling the heart did feel at the sight of her smile. Her eyes were a nebulous mix of luminous browns.Silk Mountain by Craazhy
It was said that God had locked the Universe in place with a similar topaz. That’s what the priests and foreseers told the traveler before he left. They said “Go to the Hill of Violet, blasphemer.”
The traveler was not quite so sure about a mythical creature setting a rock into space like a piece of quaint jewelry, but if this God fellow knew where Shaley had gone, the traveler was all ears.
“We cannot presume to understand His necessity for a boy like you,” the shriveled woman rasped, eyeing the traveler head-to-toe, “but in His will, there can be no doubt.”
The woman reluctantly pressed a small satchel into the traveler’s grip, looking him in the e
BinaryAll man's gold, dugBinary by Craazhy
and his art, crafted
in vain effort.
They will find her next to him.
God's eighth day.
Buddah's inner peace.
An unworthy traveler has crossed shifted ground, high water and stumbled into the holiest grace.
He will kiss the earth at the foot of the morning sun,
and dance around its roaring flame
because she is next to him.
GardenIn the midst of looming towers scraping against the atmosphere as the world turns,Garden by Craazhy
a traveler rests, where the white sun cannot see,
now free of his burdens.
Music descends from their distant summits—
Wailing lamentations of imprisoned souls.
Multidimensional ringing from the violet stone against the earth as the structures slowly crumble.
God, or at least something like that, has told the traveler that here would be the answer to the traveler's question—
In his garden of repenting.
"Would she love me?" is sewn into the traveler's skin with the impervious thread of persistence.
SpireblackDark maroon bleeds from the inky rock— formed of words unsaid— in Spireblack.Spireblack by Craazhy
The ground is a damp, incomprehensible mush where a manless boot remains.
He can see here. There is no safety for the still and dry of sweat.
Up above in the bleary white miasma from where heaven fell, a flat note echoes the last music.
Seventy-five-point-five percent falls from the cliffs and into its turbulent river.
In a silver pool is the reflection of the immaculate portrait she painted,
as rum soaks into its fibers and dilutes the colors.
A black voice whispers "isn't this better?"
A discomfort settles through the marrow.
A fire ignites on the tongue.
A hushed laughter upon you is the sound of death.