You smell the scent of cinnamon vodka...
My first year in college I snuck into an upper level creative writing class. Don’t know why they let me stay, but it was pivotal moment in my life. Not because of anything I may have written (it was nearly all drek) but because of the people I met. One I fell in love with, and the other … I fell in love with.

Anyhow, obtuse personal references aside (hey, this is a blog after all), one of the aforementioned folks was Cathedral. Nearly six and half feet tall, with spiked black hair, and hundreds of bracelets running up either arm. The first day I saw him he was wearing a white t-shirt, torn blue jeans and purple tights. That perfect punk mix of effeminacy and the ability to kick the crap out anything that came at him wrong.

And of course, charismatic as all hell.

For some reason, Cath befriended this painfully shy kid who was fresh (literally) off the farm. I had never been to a real city, let alone seen a punk. But for the next few years Cath watched out for me, introduced me to mudding, and ran all the cyberpunk games for our cadre of social misfits.

He even introduced me to the old Vampire: The Masquerade, although we all wanted to play vampire hunters.

Anyhow, if you page back a few dozen months in this blog you’ll see that Cath was the origin of “Choose Death.” And he just dropped by his namesake.

So a big, Deathy shout out is due to Cathedral, a better writer and father than I’ll ever be. If you do a Google search for solo, fiction, tea bowl and cathedralyou might find some old stories kicking around, but only if it is after midnight and raining.