My hands felt through the thick darkness like the tentacles of a distressed octopus, the cold midnight air brushed the tips of my fingers and traveled through my bones to my spine making me jitter with fear. My frightened digits met the hard bark of a tree,

I slumped up against it tenderly, allowing the warmth of the presence of another living organism to course through my veins. As I stroked the ...

Wordsmiths

Cover to cover pulsating with intelligence

It is at your finger tips

What was once a relic, now sits in pixels under glass screens

Imagination, street smarts and dreams

A paper jungle

With leather doors

The absence of materialism, a sweet solitude in the tainted march of society, a manhole for the passion of gods

Deep cut ink in veins of poets

Masterminds from the deepest regions of ...