Ab Antiquo

It’s mid-July. 3:00AM

The air is dark and damp and pregnant with the stench of decay. It’s enough to disturb ordinary folk – makes them sick. It takes a special type of person to bury the dead, to initiate their journey into the afterlife – and I’m not talking about the undertaker.

"Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe..."

No one ever told you that nursery rhymes, like all fairy-tales, had a seed of truth. Yesterday, you decided to teach the world what it meant to be full of woe.