It all begins on a usually busy New York train.

He walked the Earth with ambivalent stride, his name glowing and scowling in the pride and sorrow that could only come with having sudden meaning and recognition in the seemingly relentless world that surrounded him. Although unseeingly so, he never forgot the place of his birth, the City of Self-Pity, or the poor, grotesque, and dirty hands that unduly fed him as a child. He never forgot how to desire something with such intensity that the world around him shook in utter perdition. He lived in desire but was unable to escape the realistic terrors and incredible fantasies from within and from without. He also walked other worlds in loathing, loud footsteps. Every part of his body burned and scorched the ground in hatred. Every step was another further to his own personal annihilation. Metaphorically, of course, for he could never escape the ties that bound him to the Underworld and Tartarus. He could never unhear the sound of his booming voice laughing among the shrill screams of the unworthy. He could never unsee the brutal torture that he himself ordered as punishment. Like death himself, he was remorseless, but unlike death and contrary to common belief, he wasn't completely heartless. Although everything he was to do was thoroughly planned and carved into a path, he was unaware that the world is unscripted and things can be easily misunderstood, for the present is already gone, and a man has left from where he once stood.

*Written in 2014* Book One in the Darien Grace Chronicles He was my siren song and all other melodies just seemed to pale in comparison.

he said to me "forget what you thought, cause good girls are bad girls that haven't been caught"

They said that I was too big for the city. I said the same about him.

For our only mistake wasn't playing in a house of glass. Our playground was the Underworld and we had to learn that it could be broken with as little a force as a warm breeze. Together, we were the hurricane that caused an uproar in the realm of the dead that would last an eternity. "Some sort of mischance had befallen me, for the house I returned to was not the house I left." -Bay the Migratorial