Scaling cemetery walls and aching beneath dark skies in October rain. And brooding; always brooding. The odor of rotting fruit mingling with sod on moist ground. Celebratory funeral processions. Voices coming only in echoes, pale faces and eyes thick with coal-black eyeliner. Short days, long nights and inward journeys into darkness. Death mentioned in hushed tones and left in the hands of adolescent poets whose bookshelves display Dante next to Stephen King. Bowie's over here, Lou Reed's there and Peter... More >>>
Grim poppers Audra, Bart (left) and Bret, brooding in the twilight.