With my suitcases packed & the sky creased to its perfect middle, I’m the most beautiful I’ve ever been without having already left.
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When I listen to music, it moves through me because it has to. The soundwaves hit my ears, and my body decides where it needs to go next.
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I could be sharp-tongued, curious, fucked-up—what had never felt available to me. For the first time, French was no longer borrowed, but mine.
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A selection of songs that have marked this era of fluid warmth, the soundtrack to which we’ve been dreaming a bright new thing into breath.
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The artist’s dictum “trust your materials” only started to make sense in collage, with strange fabrics and colors and patterns coalescing in startling meaning.
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But for three minutes and 23 seconds, that magic stretch of a song where my poem lives as both love letter and record player, synaesthesia is more like a bridge.
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I only noticed the color by how it happened to me; from where I stood, I was surrounded by a forest of light.
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I suppose we’re drawn to emotional liminality because, at times, anything less feels like a lie.
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Half Mystic returns in full colour—welcome, dear songbirds, to the preorder period for the synaesthesia issue.
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Our heroine keeps walking, and we follow, unseen ally, shadow of hope, anticipating the thrills and horrors lying in wait.
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