We press onward
through the night,
hands clasped,
sleepstepping through
nightmare marshes,
leading one another,
blind and deaf
and breathing in the scent
of blood and moonlight,
the only silver
that can touch us
without leaving a scar.
About Catastrophe Jones
Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
