i can smell the change in the air and i fear its coming, the strangeness of it arriving before the thing itself, pressing its stigmata upon all sight, pulling the light from sundowns and turning it a pale alien blue, something unseen in this life and unwelcome. write this feeling down, record it among the…

the soul it burns like arson, a flicker in the cosmic blink of things, split between realities that are there and those that have yet to be forged from the dreams of sleeping gods, a river flush with the wrinkled reflection of coastal cities or sudden catastrophes born from an absence of having anything better…