The Good…
· REMINGTON GRAVES ·
Strident screeching, slowly sinking—the cold slap of metal against grinding metal, feet adjusting in their stance, sound of crunching sand below them; blur of steps beneath: one,two, three, twelve… It used to take me an hour, sometimes two to find a perfect spot…to carve out the carnage, to release the rancid resentments and derailing depression,…