October 2023 and all the Pomegranate fruits are dead. By dead, I mean eaten; devoured by a creature, perhaps bird, perhaps squirrel, perhaps Persephone herself. They hung on the tree, hollow and rotting. I picked them all — as if they’d been ripe — and peered into the basket. It seemed fitting that…

There are stories inside of us: secrets and desires and memories and fantasies piled up and up and up and up. All of them mirrors — all sizes, shapes, designs.

I am in between — wandering a threshold — ghosting through fields of Asphodel — wondering how in the Hades I ended up here.