
Poetry: Four AM Thoughts
You’d think the world were ending. With how null-coloured cracks rack the sky. And razor winds shred the upside down sea overhead, Into shards of
You’d think the world were ending. With how null-coloured cracks rack the sky. And razor winds shred the upside down sea overhead, Into shards of
It hurts to hold this hissing light.
Sears the skin.
Leaves ugly scars.
Where it tears with acrid claws.
A short story which employs a scifi metaphor of being autistic in a neurotypical social setting. On assimilation, empathy, and groupthink.
It’s my island, mine alone, so I’m alone. Singing to myself and the sea. With equally endless ever-churning fractal blacks above and below me. And
Stella Brown. Not to be ignored! How to introduce her? She’s an artist “aspiring,” and astronomer “amateur,” being interviewed by Pareidolia Press. Because, simply, she deserves to be.
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