My Beautiful dark Mind

In all my years of practice as a therapist, I have never come across a patient as odd as Charles Winslow Eaton. There he sat, with his back straight and both his hands folded neatly on my mahogany chestnut desk. The patter of rain against my office window and the hum of the tube lights did little to ease the nervousness that enveloped me. The lumbering antique bookshelf cast an eerie shadow upon h

My Beautiful dark Mind