Broken, bloodied, my stomach churned to pieces. I stumble to awaken, one eye open gathering at fragments of memories. What had happened? My phone is filled with late night calls to any writers I could think of and though the conversations are forgotten their urgent message snaps back to the forefront of my mind









Rolling up Fillmore into well off Pac Heights, I’m stopped at a red at California. And with my little eye, I spy out of the corner of it, a twenty-something blonde woman in blue scrubs kitty-corner from me running towards the intersection, and desperately waving to flag.

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I’m not sure how they pulled it off, but the New York Times managed to get Alan Moore, you know the famously grumpy but amazingly talented writer of graphic novels such as…