We Balconies will continue to sing our endless songs, our revolutionary shouts and pings: “Other worlds are possible even in impossible times!”
Actors do their best to blend in to the faceless glass city. They get desk jobs, they settle down, they raise families. None of it is real.
In the end there is not nothing. In the end there is endless everything.
Maybe these letters and numbers help me imagine a catastrophic snowfall in Shelby County, KY, or the action in Correspondence. But really the numbers aren’t for me. They’re for my laptop.
They gasp, grasping for air. Resisting arrest. They collapse.