My story is black and white. One of dusty footprints and blue memories. It goes like this.

We didn’t meet where we should have.

My father passed away on the first of December, and I couldn’t shed a single tear, nor did I want to. I had already wasted enough tears on that man.

They call them the no-facers. They aren’t really faceless (save for a few, all of whom are products of the same industrial accident). They just refuse to fight, even when provoked…

Allow me to tell you a simplified tale of God and His mother, draped in blasphemy and metaphor and crushed velvet, a skeleton encased in the resin of Creation. Though if you peer through the openings of the flowering vines, perhaps you will learn something of yourself too.

The hand of the law is a brutal thing, its icy fingers forcing down your gaze and pressing your spine into a crooked bow.

Garett, his name had been.

A mysterious man drives through the desert with a passenger by his side