Dear Editor,

Once upon a time, you could drive through the city stoned and create a makeshift eclogue out of that fuzz of vague participation, much as earlier drivers had created their pastoral investments with property in rolling parkland. In the windows which were not plywood painted to resemble glass, but behind which were walls painted to resemble all-encompassing skies, people would perform the parlor drama of their social obligation to your passing. Going through someone's trash, or the stack of papers on someone's desk, or the pages inserted by a printer's error into someone's typescript, was a hot and dirty intimacy. The substance of a whole affair might take root in a similar sense of euphemism.


The Editors

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Issue Two
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