We weren't quite yet old enough for a high school reunion, and not quite close enough to become Facebook friends or follow each other on Twitter. And yet, here we were. Jack had been one of my best ... [+]
There's something in the woodsthe same thing that hidesin the closetunder the bedin shadows behind old housesamong weeds and empty bottlesin abandoned city lotsThe thing that will not tellits namehides on the edge of the mindjust behind the memoryof late Octoberon the smell of burning leavesashes in cold fireplacesdead yellow flowersjust before summerbegins its reign of terrorIt feeds on forgetfulnessand growsby what fallsfrom the turning grindstone of time