The inside of this house was created by the door, the door by the need to escape.
The windows pulse with darkness. For this reason we measure our latitude for the
accommodation of moonlight.

An island’s darkness. A child’s.
The ocean slowly leaping at the stars, the window wet with the birth of it, desire
pulsing in the experienced muscles of the newly aged.
Bloodstones cobbled across the street of dreams, private police horses jittery in
their interior streetlight.
What crimes have we considered?
Fell out of the darkness. Into the night.

It’s the daylight alones us.
The house we live in created to resist, to wait.
Two doors because we want to be able to make a mistake.
If we leave, we want the darkness closed, the night open. If we stay, we want the
window clear, the house historical, doors locked from both sides.
Walking out on ourselves, we miss the person we used to live in, the house of our
former occupation. It’s a long way to the beginning. When the mooneggs crack beneath
our feet, it’s the last journey.
The way out the way in.
The question its own answer.

Fiction. Modern Abstract Fables.

(First edition, hardcover with dustjacket, 524 pages, $36.50 USD.)

Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days draws from fairy tales, a condescending of a 1938 Social Studies reader for 6th grade, an 1890 handbook on marital compatibility, numerous annoying educational advancement studies, the myths and legends of third-world countries and minority peoples, pulp fiction, a history of carnival side shows, folktales, frequent conversations with Crows, Owls and a wide variety of underground inhabitants, insects and the people who collect them, Joseph Cornell, Günter Eich, Russell Edson, the French Surrealist poets, the Quay Brothers, letterpress printing, and the author’s inability to channel his imagination linearly.

Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.