Letter from the Editor
There is nothing there. And there’s not even that.
As you march through the corridor of your life—its graduation ceremonies and heartbreak—from the infinite promise of adolescence and on into any given number of cardboard cut-out futures and their many alternate endings and bonus tracks—bankruptcies and biopsies—the webbing of your daydreams strung with meetings and the occasional colostomy bag—where are you in this equation? At what point are you? Because you are not the person in this corridor—this corridor that never was.
We believe ourselves to be stuck in the most lost place in the larger library of lost places—when this is an optical illusion of a room. Our hands fly about as a particulate mush and our eyes can only see—and we are forever being funneled through these devices of the self—the skin that contains our thoughts and the tongue with which we speak them—these falsehoods of the body that color the universe we traverse—that was already unraveling when it first appeared upon the scene. We believe ourselves stuck in a room, a room that has some depth to it, as we zip out over the emptiness like Wyle E. Coyote and are only moving forward because we have yet to notice the ground’s given out. The ground that was never there in the first place.
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