No, I’ve not gone ahead and managed to fake my own death, despite many years of fighting talk. The problem is that one needs money to even travel abroad to some region where disappearance at the hands of narcotic-crazed paramilitiaries is even conceivable, money even for a generous life insurance policy. In the vein of fictions, even my poverty is Dickensian, an absolutely glib term. I would offer photos of my recent travels but ach, I couldn’t afford the batteries. Haha! It’ll make for a charming story one day.

In the meantime I’ve been busy on two particular publications. The first I can’t talk about just yet, but it is fucking bodacious. The second is Nyx, a Noctournal. I’ve been heavily involved in producing the sixth issue on the monstrous, and it promises to be very interesting. The launch will be on the 28th October at a disused police station in Deptford, a suitably spooky site in place and time. Aside from this, many merry-go-rounds. I’d resent the passing of days but for the  depth of recent dawns and sunsets. South London will always trump any other location for its sunsets, believe it.


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