There’s not much left here but empty screens and dreams where we press against the scent of sex. Fishnets and silhouettes and lovers that make you not want anything at all. I put my winter coat on preparing for a black summer. Wicked, stoned, and dethroned, it flutters, this feeling of silliness my numbing hands filled with wind. I’ve been writing to stay sane; they must not have picked up on the things written in “reflections.” And I remain a small grain of sand blowing away. We turn back another glance, doom romance — hit the highway — a pastel sundown blurred van American gothic. -V
BLACK SUMMER out now.