Perhaps I'm more intrigued with the ghost of John Simon Ritchie - useless musician, drug addict, spiteful bully, sneering poster boy - than I imagine? He returns to haunt me only ever once a year; I hear his rattling padlocked chain and the drag of those stolen engineer boots before I see him. Oh, but I … Continue reading Tea Stained.
Had he never misplaced the mojo, he may, he reasoned one evening, have been able to keep a keener eye on his star. But, he sensed, it had fallen. He came to this late. Drew scant detail. Reason, as such, eluded. He dreamed a nearfuture pocket of his being patted. Mojo? He looked up in … Continue reading Dim Star, Mojito & Mojo Rising.