Ghost Little officially re-launched a few months ago. It has been home to roughly 20 blog posts, each featuring and four original book samples availalbe for download.

Some posts were fantastic. Some were good. A few were inadequate. Without the site's re-launch though, there would have been no inadequate posts, good posts, or fantastic posts. Without the sight of the inadequate posts gracing our presence, the barometer for quality would not have been set.

And most important, the book samples—Ghost Little's reason for existing—would not exist. They would be as real as anybody who only plays an eletric guitar plugged into headphones.

On a hot day flushing down into a cold night's quickening coil, a seahorse, a praying mantis, and a penguin walked into a bar.

They did not arrive together. They had never met one another before. Upon meeting though, they discovered they have something very particular in common.

Half on the sidewalk and half on the asphalt, the limp drool of the coldest piss the devil ever took was raising me just north of a blackout, and in a long second, I imagine a world of forgetful people. It felt good to be alive, but then it escaped me before I had a chance to thank her. Then I found my brain, and it fit back into place, and I remembered that reality had kicked my legs out from under me. I needed a coffee. Something hot. Something empty with flavor. First though, I had to do somebody a favor. A couple of flat-footed reptiles without an ounce of warm blood between them had put me on the concrete. I owed them now. I had to return the favor. It's just common courtesy. I wasn't raised by wolves.

"No, instead, you were risking a thousand self-righteous wanna-be superheroes ripping out your darkest secrets, and then displaying those blackened insides in glass fucking jars, whose curves magnify and enlarge to show the decayed organs' texture!"

You know the story because you've read your history, because it's required by law in this country, and because you're not an idiot. However, for this piece, my editor and I are in agreement that jogging your memory is a necessity for understanding where a concept like the D3 comes from.

In layman's terms, all five human senses had been "hacked." Hack is an ugly word though, it implies that you enter a computer, urgent fingers slithering across a keyboard, hammering some green characters into a command prompt, and stealing some passwords or catching some packets, or, God forbid, downloading the money!

"The view was always the same, it was mostly just the colors that changed, really. It was always the same temperature, the same water, the same sky, the same sounds -- only the color changed."

As time went by, the world began to rebuild itself around him. Things were quiet. He didn't feel the blood in his ears at first. It was his lips splitting open. That was how it began.

The Stonecutter's skiff drifted on through the doldrums and the leviathan still kept quiet.