Gratefully, writing happens to be a method of preservation I have access to. It’s allowed me to guard my grief.
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What we do, what two mistimed people have always done, only ever has one ending. It will never be clearer than it is right now.
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In Issue I of our second opus, show us what you’re running towards, or running from. Give us speed & surreality. Surprise us. Blur the borders. Make us look again.
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If we are all the dead conversing with the dead, I like to think the language we use to bridge the space between us is called music.
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My work as a writer is aimed at truth which, like a song, cannot be contained.
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A series of songs chosen by Issue X’s contributors, a mix to light up all that desperate quiet & sing the grief alive.
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When reporters ask for the secret, you are good at hedging: hard work is a sweet way to say obsession. Pathology is prettier when masked in music.
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Elegy can be messy. Elegy is sometimes unhappy with itself, too. Elegy is regrinding the lens again & again & again. Elegy is a reconstruction of joy.
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Elegy is birthed from such discomfort, a speaker navigating a world that hurts precisely because of its horrible resemblance to the one left behind.
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The oval and circular shapes speak of an ancient world, a world where everything is whispered to life by its surrounding details.
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