death is a leaf, lightly falling from a tree in early autumn like a fugitive, I will flee this life when my seasons change, and escape into, I think, not less than 6.02 x 1023 new forms
in which, with respect to our name, we are as confused as you are
By Inga Denman
Inga is a graduate school drop-out who enjoys the science of pharmacology and thinks that, in general, everything is better with the f word. Aside from writing poetry and discussing the finer points of social justice and radical feminism, Inga takes pleasure in observing the native birds of North Texas and watching true crime television.