(image from https://www.instagram.com/ozotheclown/) The little house sat, cloaked in the shadow of London’s leviathan towers. It was just another neighborhood at the outskirts of the fortress of wealth where the residents lived under the heel of the lords and merchants who lived as their rulers and used their blood to spin the gears of their machines. Death and pestilence were the neighbors of everyone who lived on this damp foggy street. The house sat along the Thames close enough to be constantly immersed in the vile water’s stench of feces and sulfur. The two-story house was a like brick box adorned by a broken window that was covered with torn frilly drapes. They were on the second floor in a tiny brick cell with no window. The little space was furnished a child’s bed standing on a floral pattern throw rug. It had once been Henry’s bedroom. He had turned eight just twenty-one weeks ago, but somewhere along the line, it became apparent he wasn't going make it the thir
This is a collection of anecdotes from the fringes of reality, a tapestry stitched together from our dreams as well as our nightmares, from the fears that haunt the collective imagination. These are the symptoms of the sickness known as the human condition.