The Subtle Taste of Midnight

And the clock strikes...

Midnight.

The hour of no return.

The time when lurking shadows creep through your bedroom window and summertime dreams get lost between sweat-soaked cotton sheets. When the memories of ghosts stalk like silence sitting atop empty boneyards.

Midnight is also the time when the Muse comes to visit me.

Sometimes, she brings a burst of hopeful inspiration. Words masquerading as writer's tears. Ideas unspoken. Dreams left undreamt. At other times, she mocks me with her emptiness, the hollow ring of her voice echoing in the space between my brain cells. Stories jumbled beyond coherence or even human understanding.

But one thing is for sure, as certain as the day follows the night, as Time strings itself into pearls of moments along the rope which connects this universe to the next, the Muse is there at the stroke of the Witching Hour.

Waiting. Watching. Ready to torture me with her vile tongue and her dangerous musings.

Which brings us to this little number you're currently reading.

A mere collection of poems, short stories, and whatever bullshit my mind can cobble together before the sun rises. Musings and night owl rants that have no real beginning or end, no real connection to each other, and no place in the projects that I'm currently working on. The only thing that binds each story to the next is the fact that they've all been written during the dark side of midnight and they're much too precious to be simply thrown in my computer's recycle bin.

So here they are, hours of sleeplessness put to print for your enjoyment. Opinions, thoughts, and comments are happily welcomed.