A truly exhaustive work is never done, never complete, and never realized. Still, we shuffle forward in spite of that. Why? Because those of us who are compelled to create must do so. For no other reason than that we must.
I see the human spirit breaking from its bonds.
The Great Caper
The year is 1900 Paris France. A terrible course of events has thrust a young and ambitious Inspector into the murder investigation of his superior. The Late Great Inspector Dugal.
The Waning Chapters of The Iliad’s Cry.
What awaits after death, and the stillness before the rebirth?