We searched for something, anything, and we found undigested butterflies, a flurry of moths, thirty thousand bees.
It was raining letters of the alphabet, but lost children teamed up with village idiots to look for signs of decommissioned bus stops, former piercings, designer wisps, identities, hospitals.
As the world slid, writers got to work on their trills and coos in a dead language, or a new one. The result: the sequined vernacular of this issue.
