An otherworldly dialog of prose poetry.
“We have all lived in the hive. The walls bending from a thousand, scavenged paintings, every one in dissonance with the others. Rooms cluttered with chairs and cheap, expensive rugs. On one of the mattresses my blood, under the sheets. Hotbodied nights. A landscape of my blood painting mistake after mistake until the word is meaningless. Until the act is.”
