The book "Love is Irrelevant" is coming along nicely. It's rough, both composition and emotionally, but it feels good to get it all out there.
Here is a sneak peek:
1975. Queens, New York.
That’s me, 5 years old and I’ve already bashed in my first head with a baseball bat. Vincent Colletti laid there with his head split open next to my peddle car shaped like the batmobile. Blood pooling around his skull.