Something I've been milling over conceptually for a while. Maybe a short story or potential novella in the works. Maybe even a sequel of sorts to my prior work. All and all it definitely is in my eyes a more mature form of my writing stylistically speaking that captures the edgy existentialism of my first novel (As Skies Became Crimson) without the dependency on vulgarity (namely the excessive use of "fuck" in all its aesthetically pleasing forms and contexts :).
I have been alive for almost 34 years now and in those 33 years, soon to be 34, I have come to acquire two unassailable facts: the sky is a light shade of baby blue on my birthday every year and I am undoubtedly a bastard. Though I did not come to these facts by happenstance as I surely struggled to grasp them in their certainty, I most certainly have them now. I have them both and in possessing them am made nauseous. A nausea I seek to ease this coming summer celebration. For though I cannot snare from the sky the light that shades it so, I do hold another light quite timidly in the palm of my hand. In it's gentle breath I feel the warmth of freedom, my freedom, a freedom I soon wish to exercise if so able.