Written by Shini Meyer Wang.
Graphic by Peyton Cabaniss.

Where are we now? In the space between phone calls. In the flicking of a lighter. In the rhythm of the nighttime. In the crevice of a sunrise. In the screech of time ticking. In the farming of ourselves. In the bookshelves of some hopefulness. The walls stare. The floor dusts. The ceiling weighs. The window glints. The view drifts. The door locks. The tap drips. The books shift. The bed creaks. The covers twist. The light streams. The air heats. The heart aches. The day dreams. The phone rings… The image billows back into the streets of slender palm trees, twinkling lights incandescent, and shells of dollhouse boutiques. Birds flock into the corners of memory: pin-pricked pores of skin, drawstring smile, light linen collar. Which paths dwindle and which go to the end? Which become snapped kite strings?

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