by Adeline Macdonald Clean steam iron the linen sheets, white and crisp and beautiful and without fault or fold White walls upon white walls with nothing to upset you or hurt you or make you cry or want to leave or want to think Do you love it? Is it…
By Matthew Corsi A survival rate does not exist this morning.The wind levies her threat my God, what a mess.A coral reef of death swarms the sky, veins entwined, a single unit of red plushcreates a landscape of rush. Everywhere, everywhere, it becomesthe unit of fatigue. Life is Done for.