Travel down a crooked highway. Wear a blindfold. Don't trust the pills melting in your sweaty hand. You're about to journey through the ghoulish mind of one of contemporary underground literature's finest practitioners. Don't bother to fasten your seat belt: it's too late.
This triptych of tales has Lovecraft squirming in his coffin, Ligotti nailing his eyes shut, and Kafka carving scary pictures onto the supple flesh of Harry Crews's naked back. Don't be scared. Keep driving into the storm and maybe, just maybe, you'll be struck by lightning sooner than you think.
Travel down a crooked highway. Wear a blindfold. Don't trust the pills melting in your sweaty hand. You're about to journey through the ghoulish mind of one of contemporary underground literature's finest practitioners. Don't bother to fasten your seat belt: it's too late.
This triptych of tales has Lovecraft squirming in his coffin, Ligotti nailing his eyes shut, and Kafka carving scary pictures onto the supple flesh of Harry Crews's naked back. Don't be scared. Keep driving into the storm and maybe, just maybe, you'll be struck by lightning sooner than you think.