I hate the sound of Judy Jetson singing melodically in an elevator. I once cursed on the elevator in a parking structure on the Fourth of July, said they were scary as fuck, and my mother banished me from her sight long enough to find femininity in a neon garden.
A hybrid piece by Kwan-Ann Tan.
A hybrid piece by Özgecan Kesici.
The power of images is that they’re inextinguishable, endlessly generative.
A hybrid piece by Isabel Ries Neal.
Came to think of that crack as a canyon, and made a bed in its lack.
He was only nineteen and there were multiple mouths to feed. It didn’t seem to matter which direction he turned— in China, they all felt like dead ends.