By Mathilda Cullen
It was an hour chewed by the clock, days wedged between the brain’s teeth. It was this mind fastening to another in an attempt to overwrite its history. It was a world I’d never birth, please don’t mention it. It was how the midnight put itself inside you and said work. It was a town called Hauppauge and the land was all flat and swallowed. It was this fact I threw at every other moment of my life. It was a sapling pushing up through concrete, the waking up at the bottom of a fall. It was how the ground inverts as you pass through it. It was sitting so long in the dark our landscapes rendered bare, our landscapes not our landscapes. It was the sky, someone’s property. It was another collage against wasteland, another nail in his fucking cantos. It was a mind and the mind is not capital. Listen, we will haunt you into memory of this.
Read Issue 17