It has come to my attention that I have attained more than the logical number of cobweb-scattered corners throughout the 'net. So I vacated a few, closed bulging suitcases of poetry and made for the exit. The following would be all that remains:

excommunimoi : a novel-in-progress through '08 and '09, "If Prometheus Wept in Winter" in the margins of philosophy notebooks.
rjechitost : a mess for the short stories.

In short, TPP died and went to Hell. Die-hard, lovely and misinformed Chair fans can go ogle the old notes, but an update any time soon remains doubtful. Er, mostly because I'm lazy. And grew tired of shooting methmaritime. In the meantime - if you're feeling extra intrepid - you could choose to be sweet and buy me a new Writer's Market.

<3