dark violet

sweetening memories

“hey, we’re living in a fucking incubator,” i say, deliriously battered by the summer haze; “but what does it matter?” picture us: top-floor apartment curtains closed shut tricking ourselves we have made the weather                                our subordinate. we                                       master manipulators twist and turn our glasses                          of artificial wildberries                          fermented                          then imported, our tongues                           an acquired…