The mountains ignore us studiously. The rivers pretend to have forgotten our names. We had keys as thick and ornate as slices of cake for stolen mansions which we passed from generation to generation until they were lost. The argument jackknifes in the fields and we find ourselves haranguing an increasingly bored auditorium. There are at least five minutes left of this cold democracy.
dream for sale
Issue 23, Volume 2: Winter 2012