Winter, 2015

March already. Unseasonably warm and sunny puts the farm into overdrive, while inside, looking out the window, putting together this new issue, there’s a lingering chill. I feel like a ghost, hovering, transparent, as though if someone looked in this window right now, they’d see nothing but words appearing on a screen, letters scattering themselves like seed without the aid of fingers tapping the keyboard.

Patrick Loafman

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