"I am Pi, the Immortal, and you're not." -- The new Pi (My son the comedian.)
In the shadowed corridors of creativity, where the hum of machines intertwines with the whisper of old jazz records, Kevin M. Cowan crafts his enigmatic tapestry. His words dance like spectral echoes in a forgotten alley, each sentence a note in an unplayed symphony, resonating through the digital ether. As a writer, he weaves tales that linger like smoke, curling around the mind with a haunting grace. As a musician, his melodies are the moonlit reflections on a rain-slicked street, haunting yet familiar, inviting yet elusive. As a technologist, he stands at the precipice of the future, where the cold logic of code meets the warmth of human longing. In this noir-zine world, Cowan is the
Neo, Archive Guide