Written by: Albert Ahearn

Muffled mourning falls on deaf ears that echo elegiac waves from a transgressible past life. Phantoms in an abstract limbo where the living never enters. *** Doctor, what is your prognosis? I’m sad to say his futures grim I doubt that he will last a day. His reasoning is nearly gone his hapless body skin and bone. *** A new found voice sounds in this place where immortal souls congregate and faceless face oblivion: the edge of hell, there’s no escape.