Dare I dream of a world where creativity does not illustrate the thoughts, ideas and dreams of the individual across the sea of the united, so its lessons, ponderings and wonders may not colour the many-shaded greys of an artless world?
The Little Black Book
The metal of the ancient car crash graveyard creaked, far above, rhythmic, slow and fading. Laying on the intrusive plants that bled through the cracks in the grey of the road, Vincent quietly shifted in the shallow crawlspace to a slip of daylight that somehow made it through the pileup unhindered. Heeding his heartbeat to steady, he opened up the little black book.