Ghost cities and dust.
When you see something for what it is, what is the thing you are seeing?
Fuck the low roads and the high roads with this one. Anobium burrows underground.
Recently, Benjamin van Loon, our managing editor and muscleman, submitted a story for publication to a literary journal. After a few weeks, he received a personal rejection, where the editors of the journal said: “While we are a fiction journal, we prefer to publish realistic fiction.”
There was no tone of irony with their use of the term ‘realistic fiction.’ By virtue of nothing other than itself, fiction is non-realistic. Life is realistic, and everything else is interpretation. But let’s not ask ‘what is life’ or dive into any other rabbit holes. This is all very simple: there can be no realistic fiction.
Reality itself is a slippery concept, and sometimes all one has to do to achieve the parallax view is tilt his head a few degrees to the left. This is how we can see a world where cities are built by ghosts for ghosts. This is why we titter when those of us in Times Square recognize the New Year only when the balls have dropped. And this they call ‘realistic?’
We prefer the fiction of reality. Here’s an example:
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