scribed by
Lucas Farrell
The song of the gray catbird in the apple tree that Louisa has been seducing sounds like brand new sneakers stutter-stepping on a polished hardwood floor. In an empty gymnasium at the end of time or, depending on your perspective, the beginning of goodbye. I've been teaching my girls to flick the wrist, shoot with a high arc, and never forget to follow through. I tell them that if I find, when I die, that there is nothing. I will create something.