by Tylor Colby
Don’t test us on a triumph. Don’t assume dorsal fins where our appendages lay. Under a scrape of skin is a watermark of a lost civilization, the sum fortune of which we could not pay. Dialogues with our demons can only do so much, perhaps qualify that which we already knew. In times such as these when an aching for antiquity in me abounds, my instinct is to respond in one of two ways: Either throw the shadow on my back and let that be all the world can see of me, or sing my song to my idealized, ancient we.
My vessel is aflame with the night air. My heart beats too much. Maybe a torch in a dimly lit autumnal room should do for now, humming along to a jaunty tune we’ve all somehow, previously, unspokenly, known. Synchronicity is a holy virtue, but I am no believer in Christ, Allah, Krishna, Clinton, Kanye. But where else can I round up the cries of my lost generation than in the dull mundanities of try try again? If I cease to be an image I cease to be a guiding light.