Here’s an excerpt:
What is writing like?
There is time that is blank. You are on her and you are guilty.
Later, you get dreamy. You slash her open and taste her. When she is in pieces, you hang her to cure. When she is nothing but bone and pearl, you set her on flat paddles in the oven.
The parcels of smoked meat are the best you’ve ever tasted.
Read the rest HERE.