cause the sun had been shot down in the sky,

by Rachel Lynch in

Black sheets were nailed to the windows. A beach house on stilts in the middle of a landlocked town, her house made no sense. Wine in paper cups. Wild like a mustang. Her expressions are echoing back. I am among the insane, out-of-their-minds, fingers everywhere the shouldn't be, type people. Golden. Captive performance, Captive Performer. What do I know. Because of this and because of that. And I cannot pretend to be anything other than the result of this and that. I'm fed up with the limitations of science. The unbelievable distance between speech and flesh.

Speech is just an instrument to tempt in the night. Weeping like the knowledgeable few, for our decisions have made fools of us. Heavy flag, says the artist. And the snake whispers for me to slither, "Here, put these on, you're going to need them". What becomes clear is that the closer we come to mimicking the natural world, the further we separate ourselves from it.