The Haunting of Katrina Milford
Um þessa rafbók
Considering for a moment that Im not currently suffering under the strain of a mental breakdown, Katrina said, do you mind explaining what exactly it is thats happening to me?
Katrina Milford awoke one morning to find her world literally turned upside down by the discovery that she was now sharing her life with someone that had long since been relieved of such a burden. All she knew of him aside from his slip of the mortal coil was that he went by the name Thomas. Let him tell it and he knew all that he needed to know about her, the brunt of which being that her life was a mess and the sole reason that he was there was to help her do something about it.
You blame me for haunting you, but the truth is you were inhabiting a world of displaced, wandering spirits set adrift on a barren sea of disillusion long before I landed in your life.
Follow Katrina as she moves through a world colored by the supernatural and populated with all of the angst that one would expect to find while trying to navigate the pitfalls of a senior year at high school with the undead looking over your shoulder.
Um höfundinn
Right. Its that time again. Where we both sit here and do our best to come up with the appropriate words to both describe and give a somewhat reasonable explanation for the existence of the craftsman behind this piece. In the end it hardly seems worth it. I mean, the man does all but absolutely defy description. But if I were ever forced to make an attempt at defying him in name my best foot forward would start out with something along the lines of a veritable silent shadow nestled amidst the thunderously bleak, sociopathic air surrounding him. If the world were a canvas his color would be the ignored mix on the palette mocking the work of the artist. The sort of mentality that could spend a lifetime laboring to construct a wall with a single window space cut into it only to use the next fifteen minutes after the last brick was laid to black out the glass with a brush coated in tar. Hes a menace for the simple fact that he could never think of a good enough excuse to be one. His freedoms based on movement, but the only time he can dream is when hes standing still. Graves. A poor mans false hope. Enthusiastic in his apathy and content with his sullenness. And hes writing. Thank you. www.myspace.com/plotholes
