I remember loving this series back in the 80s. Still ringing, I think.
Milk is a mythical moth that sees its own heart, mostly in summer. Some kind of pillow moves me too and dissolves my palate; I cannot taste the shabby white wings and behold each shadow’s infancy beneath the definition of sleep. I’m the kind of person who rides between towns in terra cotta music, green’s… Continue reading Eclipse the Light & Crudely Divide by Amy King