"Found among the possessions of someone no longer with us."
Ghosts stuttering from an abyss reconstructed with profane and profound tenderness. Their husks have fallen out, their decayed flesh hangs on, all stealth and searing pain. Here, faces of gods shine or are they scrawled with the trash of EuroAmerican civilization.
A book like if a Mexican death tabloid snatched you by the shorts and intoned the names of your ancestors in alphabetical order. This has gone beyond surgery with your so-called ability to parse a text. The words parse you. A baby shut between the covers and stomped with such a precise culmination of weight that it is the only thing I will pay to own.
A claustro centrifuge cake collaged cunningly collated to capacity caged on the page.
Obscure and visceral conflicts among the Modiglianoids. A meta-palimpsest wrought from DIY paste-up aesthetic, in which the resulting textures are as instrumental as the text in rendering partial excavations of a lost narrative.