Stories assault me like angry ghosts, attacking my desire to feel whatever I feel, even my grief, since if I decline to feel it I might forget who or where I am.
Stories assault me like angry ghosts, attacking my desire to feel whatever I feel, even my grief, since if I decline to feel it I might forget who or where I am.
“Luciana and I spread boundless, oceans of braided wildwood. I said our adventure and she yes, brought things that said she wanted to agree. A patterned dress, a pound of sliced meat, a thin bra that turned her the pearlescence of a shell. We slipped into the hive some lustrous word, carving wooden houses, translating each other into texture and light.”
Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein | Nympholepsy