When our city speaks out of turn about its hunger, every version of us is simplified to bones. We dream polychromatic dreams of altered landscapes, of landscapes-as-altars where we can bow to the breadth of something prouder than our pain, wiser than our invisible counsel. We are atomized and distilled by angling shards of light.
Everything is almost as eager as I am for you. The way your eyes reflect neon. The way you move your hands like dragonflies, your scars like brushstrokes, the way your stories go down like absinthe and melting snow. You make color linger.
Photos by Chiwan Choi
Writing by Meg Worden
