The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the author.
The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the author.
“I clapped, then the radiance
contrasted white breath to the ivory slab, loaves in heat
sent in a pinch between windows between highways
we want a way, we want the link to prod a window
the odd of invent it and thought such that massed
before us the regular lyric prong as basis and asymmetric at any
moment…”
Clark Coolidge | This Time We Are Both