We’re ghosts haunting the wrong houses, spooks without a C.I.A. Neon signs fading into the distance and motels empty of newlyweds. We’re what influential german dramatists pictured when they had fever dreams, two people with shiny smiles anxiously standing by the side of a blind sea. Your hand in mine, how dangerous. Your graceful fingers spell out initiative while mine tactfully promise a lack of sleep. We’re going to spell out the end of the world together, in the movement of lines on palms and programmable languages directed by the tilt of a wrist. We’re the sound of a solitary radio while driving through Nevada at night. We’re the 327000 feet languishing between the earth and the edge of her atmosphere. No sleep and we’re speaking in punctuation. No dreams.
Burrow‘s laptop recently got stolen while she was in Seattle. To try and raise money to buy a new one, she’s selling prints of her artwork. If lithographs aren’t your thing, but you’d still like to help, her link for donations is here.
Me, I’m house-cleaning in prep for my trip to Europe. I’ve got a list of books I’d like to sell. I’m wanting them to go for 30% cover price OBO with probable discounts for wholesale.