She feels close to depth, Like a necklace, you notice after looking for a while.
She changes the feeling of the room without meaning to, Grey suits her. Her smile is small and unforced, like it’s just where her face settles.
Arched eyebrows, not to impress anyone. Eyes with softness, not emptiness.
She doesn’t remind you of anyone else. No earrings, no necklace, the crashing waves of her hair,
Not trying to be seen, And doesn’t demand attention
Silence is her language, She understands it as well as speech.
Thin oval-shaped lips, bottling up words of wisdom Forehead showing experience more than worry
If she were part of a story, She wouldn’t be the centre of it. She’d be the depth underneath, The part that connects things And make everything else feel real. Like a bluer story, if present.
Umbrella for Two
Standing in the rain Beneath the sky that weeps An elegy for one
Holding an unopened umbrella A silent companion to the storm A quiet witness
The rain speaks gently The way a mother may
Standing still The air and rain learns my shape
Each drop a promise That breaks apart before it reaches me
Still, I look up Just in case the clouds might remember The child they left behind
Diamond in the Rough
From Within Plastic green trees Green Snow that never escapes A glass dome, Holding a tiny world Foggy glass No cracks, no scratches Just a wall That separates their world from ours On the bedside table for years A mere shape Brand new once, Now a diamond in the rough
Serena Park is a high school student who writes poetry and creates visual art in the quiet corners of her day. When she’s not working on a piece, she’s usually listening to music—especially rock, with a special place in her heart for Kurt Cobain.
Through the tomography’s tungsten lens, I saw a strange constellation, like that of the cosmos — It was shaped like a labyrinth.
The ephemeral nature of the scene drew a paradox to the striking intricacy of the view— And a myriad of nebulae flashed beyond my sight, pulses send here and there.
Its flashing vista encapsulated me in a state of utter perplexity, And caught me mesmerized by its ever-enigmatic nature.
Then was when, amidst the cascade of vividness, where I witnessed a wild tempest, an enigmatic oblivion, the cosmos of my mind.
A Matter of Perspective
All that could be seen was a glimpse of light breaking through the metal wall. There was a room one covered with red paint, yet shallow. Coated with slick mahogany paint on the outside, its surface reflected a smooth brilliance.
Hovering across the horizon, all that could be seen was a square of red, standing alone in the midst of an intersection.
Bikes, cars, and children sped fast through the road And the city bustled with vivacity, Yet it seldom had any visitors. Only when men dressed in blue caps went by was it ever visited
Lying on the ground, nothing could be seen but darkness the wall was illuminated from its left, right, front, and back, and a slight hue of red.
Wind was bustling through, in and out as if it were to tickle the empty hollows of the lonely red box.
Here
The middle-aged men wearing a fuzzy, apricot hood and a brand-new purple hat waves towards a child who is running across the street with a big smile on his face
The young man, leaning towards an old wall made of reddish bricks and grey stones is wrapped around a brown leather jacket and a white turtle-neck.
crossing the street light with a crooked expression, A teenage girl with her right eyebrow lifted both her ears are covered with a set of headset that is decorated with stars-stickers
A student wearing a uniform is riding bicycle across the river, her hair fluttering golden in sunlight. Holding a briefcase in one hand and a light-blue duffel bad bag behind her back, she closed her eyes sniffing the soothing smell of soil and grass;
A street-singer wearing hot-pink skinny jean recites her song atop of a brisk cardboard box. Holding her guitar one hand and a bottle of water on another, she looks up into the sky, up into the baking sun.
Alina Lee is a high school student at an international school in Seoul, South Korea. Her writing explores memory, identity, and the quiet moments between people. When she’s not writing, she enjoys hiking, running, and playing the ukulele. Her work is inspired by the natural world and the rhythms of everyday life.
I bought it because my hands looked unfinished, because silver means something to people who notice hands. The jeweler said it would age beautifully. I wanted people to forget I had fingers without it.
I practiced talking with my hands, the way people do when they’re certain, the way I wasn’t. I couldn’t stop adjusting it
At the meeting, I left my hands on the table knuckles up, like a small declaration. No one mentioned it. That meant they noticed.
Then one Thursday, I forgot to wear it and still took up space at the table. My hands still worked The reassurance I was looking for was never in the silver
Checkout Line
The woman in front of me is placing her groceries on the conveyor belt while the cashier, maybe seventeen, hair up in a messy bun, keeps her eyes on the register screen The woman’s bag is canvas, reusable, expensive looking and she’s pulling out coupons from a shiny leather wallet, each one unfolded carefully The cashier’s shoulders go tight when she sees them, I can’t tell if she’s annoyed by the coupons, the extra work of scanning, or if the woman said something while I was still choosing between checkout lines, something about expired sales or wrong prices or the way things used to be done. The woman probably said something about organic foods, and how she always buys organic in this annoying voice, using an uncomfortable amount of vocal fry and the word ‘like’ the cashier nods but doesn’t look up. Maybe the cashier is tired of women like this, women who need everyone to know about their stupidly expensive, pseudo-healthy diet choices. The woman taps her credit card against her palm one, two, three times while waiting for her items to ring up. The rhythm says hurry up, says this is taking too long
I decide she’s the type of person who thinks the cashier is incompetent, too slow, not meeting whatever impossible standard she’s invented for how quickly her organic quinoa should be scanned. The cashier still won’t make eye contact Good for her, I think. Don’t let this woman make you feel small. The woman tilts her head, says something I can’t hear the cashier pauses over a bunch of kale The woman’s voice gets louder “I’m sure it was two-for one” There it is. I knew it. She’s going to make a scene over 50 cents, over needing it to be right, over needing this teenager to admit she knows better The cashier calls for a price check and the woman crosses her arms. I want to say, Just let it go, just pay the extra dollar and stop making her day harder, stop needing to win.
But then the manager comes over and snaps something at the cashier, not at the customer. The cashier’s face goes red and she ducks her head. The transaction ends. The woman takes her bags, glances back at the cashier, says, “You’re doing great,” and leaves. The cashier exhales. I step forward with my items: frozen meals for one, a can of soda, the same kale I was so sure would be the problem. I don’t say anything. I swipe my card. She bags in silence.
Outside, I see the woman loading groceries into a sedan, careful with each bag, and I realize I needed her to be careless. Needed her to be the villain of someone else’s shift so I wouldn’t have to think about how I move through the world which lines I hold up, whose patience I test, who’s been kind to me when I was too wrapped up in my own small urgencies to notice I was being difficult. The sedan pulls away. I stand there holding my single bag, the receipt already crumpled in my hand.
Rubber Band
I’ve kept a single rubber band Looped around my bedpost for 3 years It’s gray now, rimmed with rings of dust and lint, Stretched thin in places where my thumb Kept worrying it during conversations I didn’t want to have
It was there the night before my presentation when I couldn’t sleep, when I wrapped it around my finger too tight Counting how many seconds until The tip of my finger turned white
It was there the morning I got the acceptance email when I snapped it across the room At the wall that heard me rehearse the same hopes twenty times It slid behind my bed But I dug it out with a broom because it belongs on my bedpost, not there
My younger cousin held it once And I showed him how to weave it between his fingers into a star He wore it on his wrist for the rest of the day, then set it down on my desk before he left Like he knew I couldn’t lose it
Sometimes I think it’s waiting to be used for something ordinary bundling the stack of photos on my shelf, keeping a crumpled page from escaping, looped around a moment I’ll need it later
Today I moved it from the bedpost to my pocket
It weighs almost nothing, but carries what I cannot
Katie Hong is a high school student based in Seoul, South Korea, whose love for poetry is surpassed only by her passion for baking and spending time with her puppy, Loki. With a gift for words and a keen eye for detail, Katie weaves intricate tapestries of emotion and imagery in her poetry, inviting readers to embark on self-discovery and introspection. When she’s not immersed in the world of poetry, Katie can be found in the kitchen, experimenting with flavors and textures to create delicious treats that delight the senses. With a zest for life and a boundless imagination, Katie is committed to sharing her voice with the world and making a meaningful impact through her writing.
You can find more of Katie’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Former university lecturer in medieval literature and teacher of English and Drama, Gail Ashton is well-known for her academic works with Bloomsbury, Macmillan and Routledge. She is also published by Cinnamon Press and has brought out three previous collections of poetry, most recently, ‘What rain taught us’. In 2015 she edited a collection of writing about place called ‘Meet Me There’ and in 2019 she wrote an experimental memoir called ‘Not the Sky’. ‘If this was a map of your life’ is her fourth collection of poetry and it is a Joint Winner of the Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize, 2023. She lives in rural Herefordshire.
The collection contains 41 poems with the title poem coming at the close. Unity of theme is one of Ashton’s strengths. In this case, it is the seeking of solace and contentment as seen through the lens of the natural world. Poems about friendship and loss find expression in focussed attention to detail.
Within the poems themselves there are some notable turns of phrase. ‘What if we were to ask for fire’, for example, ends with the couplet
You will never know your voice is full of sherbet lemons.
‘Once all this was fields’ opens with the lines ‘October’s here early my love, all snap and witch- / bone light’. Descriptions of a garden are often neatly phrased with some well-chosen vocabulary. ‘What would it look like, this letter to myself?’ begins as follows:
Tethered to home I wander from room to room shocked by purple and gold spiking the garden, a last flush of roses alight in a tawny acer.
In ‘You would love that’ The names of specific plants such as agrimony, coltsfoot, smellfox, fairy flax and alkanet, add beauty and variety to the poem. Ashton uses her extensive botanical knowledge to good effect in her poetry. She is also good at employing memorable imagery drawn from the natural world. In ‘Well, we’ll just have to see’, a doctor’s bleeper is described as being like ‘a bird fluttering / away down a treeless corridor’.
Ashton’s passion lies in nature. There is a sequence of poems about oak trees and a garden is often in her sights. Several poems are addressed to family and friends. Some poems have been inspired by quotations from other writers such as the French writer Annie Emaux and the American poet Mary Oliver.
Visually, there is some experimentation with the way the text is presented on the page. Stylistically, the unexpected use of rhyme at the end of some of the poems brings with it a sense of satisfaction and completion. These quiet poems reward us with their diligence and detail.
Shadow limbs of the dead tree stretch across the barren dirt in search: they descend into burrows where dark meets dark, reaching for a neighbor but the sun moves so touch never happens.
Shadow limbs rotate sunrise to sunset; a sundial ticking seconds like bug tracks stitching hourglass sand.
Snagged
It’s painful for the cottonwood tree to grow beside the wooden fence.
Posts planted in the ground with no hope of spreading roots. Planks nailed like fake branches with only splinters as leaves.
When the wind blows, when the boughs brush against lifeless boards, the tree caresses the fence and doesn’t mind leaving snagged leaves behind quivering on splinters.
Below Morning
Sunset on top of the clouds shines brightly like snow-capped mountains with darkening valley in gray below.
Below in the cornfield rows of irrigated ditches reflect last rays of sun stretching toward the highway; car headlights brighten like shafts of morning attempting dawn.
Leaves Down
Over the bridge across the river to stand under trees where leaves fall down.
Squirrels scamper up wrinkled tree trunks when rafts float on top of rapids following gravity beneath cliffs jutting outward in a valley seen from above.
Stand Still
If I stand still, will my feet sprout roots and dig into the soil? If I raise my arms, will bark crust over my skin and branches solidify? Will my open eyes change into knot holes staring at cousin trees? Will my hair grow leaves or pine needles depending on my choice of trees? Will I hear a tree fall if I stand still?
Diane Webster lives in western Colorado. Her poetry has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review, Studio One and other literary magazines. Her haiku/senryu have appeared in failed haiku, Kokako, Enchanted Garden Haiku. Micro-chaps were published by Origami Poetry Press in 2022, 2023, 2024 and 2025. Diane has been nominated for Best of the Net and three times for a Pushcart. Diane retired in 2022 after 40 years in the newspaper industry. She was a featured writer in Macrame Literary Journal and WestWard Quarterly. Her website is: www.dianewebster.com
You can find more of Diane’s work here on Ink Pantry.
The ocean is like us It carries storms inside its chest and still learns how to shine. It holds whole cities of feelings Beneath a calm face, Seeing the sea wearing sunlight Like a crown of blue daylight, Tides pull the way memories do, Back and forth, and never gives up Just watching for the moon to speak.
JoyAnne O’Donnell is author of five poetry collections on Amazon. JoyAnne loves to go out in nature and write poetry. Her latest poetry is in Ultramarine Review.
Before I wake, the crawling dreams learn to sleep. In the rain shadow of mind, light becomes a shade of darkness.
Wild flowers dance on graves, unbothered, and I carry the wreath with thorns, unperturbed. Grief, bright as a bug zapper, glows in my room like religion.
The voice inspects the house, then leaves — noisy breathing, unfinished thoughts. Only memory remains, pacing.
Border/lands
Seeing the child draw a squiggly chalk line, I realise that borders are just squiggly lines, drawn on maps from a hundred years ago. A hundred years ago was before radio, before phones. The squiggly lines remain like mountain ranges. Cutting people into shapes, slices, into teams, into enemies. The child erases the squiggly line with the back of his hand and I’m amazed. All borders are dotted lines. There are gaps that we are trying to squeeze our way into, And out of, aspiring for a better life, beyond the bottleneck of borders.
Falling with Buoyancy
Where others sail with ease, I strain to stay, choiceless tides deciding my course.
Hope, once bright, dissolves in moth-white spray, a ghost of faith dispersed upon the air.
Like turtles turned, I flail against the ground, yet learn to fall before I dare to glide.
Wrists clasped close, lest brittle bones be found; odd snow-angels mark where dreams have died.
Still I drop as autumn petals drift, as fading blooms whose sighs dissolve in frost.
A silent grace, the only final gift, when sound and shape in winter’s hush are lost.
If fall I must, let the end be mild, as though the earth embraced her fallen child.
The Ship
Vaishnavi Pusapati is a physician poet nominated for the Touchstone Awards. Her work has appeared in Dreich, Prole, Roanoke Review, Presence, Ink Pantry, Molecule, among others. Her haiku book, Afterlife:haikus, is forthcoming.
You can find more of Vaishnavi’s work here on Ink Pantry.
From a place of trust I glimpse your magnificence, your harnessed race of complexities in harmony, slow moving, more powerful than a hundred suns conjoining.
From a place of faith, being wrong is just as exciting as being right – a longing to know you, knowing I will never know you only know the minute aspects that flip and twist and rewrite as my knowledge grows, while keeping some laws fundamental.
From a place of love, your love is gathering in bright awe-inspiring displays, terrifying in their brilliance and in their magnitude. Nothing is personal. Everything is individual, overreaching galaxies into galaxies, twin dreams.
From a place of exploration, finding inspiration where paradox consumes, invigorates, illuminates all places, gloriously shifting.
Surrendered
In the middle – steady, harsh waves, salty flavoured ocean, stranded, treading. Love comes smiling. It is a ghost. Joy comes and passes by. Purpose comes but floats by like a jellyfish riding the momentum.
In the middle, tired of treading, no escape, just the ebb and flow, surging, retreating waters. What lies beneath makes no difference because nothing is above except the burning brutal sun, cloud cover occasionally, and only air to eat.
Skin cells, bloating. Eyes, unable to keep open. In the middle of an endless abyss, all my happy days behind me.
I hold my hands in prayer position, arms raised over my head. I stop struggling to not go under, I go under and let that weight, the peace at last, take me down.
She
Fear is splendid in making the body inflamed, bloated on trepidation at the news of many meadows burning.
She hurried and found a healer inside herself, willing to go the distance and forfeit personal power for a greater acquisition. She understood the traveller and the sit-at-homer as one in the same, especially on a stormy day or a year of upheaval.
Faith is the bullseye with no point-marks gained unless hit dead-centre, directing every focus to only that centre. Faith is the wave to ride to the shore, removed from other moving sources, like wind and arm-strokes.
She opened herself to fear not denying it but seeing it as just another entity under the canopy, smaller than the giving sun.
Out
I asked to be let out from that unwanted accomplishment. I asked to shed my shame, my duty and the hard-core call of doing time.
It was taken down and away from me, along with so much more. Guilt, and worldly bondage also fell along with security, along with a strange, twisted pride.
Knuckles down, hands still folded. In my head are ghosts of patterns dissolved but are still haunting. Ways of being I don’t have to carry are dropped, but my empty arms are stalled in position, humbled by uncertainty. Set free and starting over, but not yet started, just starting to try to etch out different possibilities, a solid surging becoming.
Whiffs of passing currents, rich aromas that entice briefly then fade. Whiffs I cannot capture and keep, not now, maybe never, let out, dumbfounded, helpless, screaming, just born.
Allison Grayhurst has been nominated for “Best of the Net” six times. She has over 1,400 poems published in over 530 international journals, including translations of her work. She has 25 published books of poetry and 6 chapbooks. She is an ethical vegan and lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay;www.allisongrayhurst.com
You can find more of Alison’s work here on Ink Panty.
Deep, dark chocolate the shade of walnuts with a hard, shell exterior, when bitten down on, cold brushes the tongue— the chill of fresh, sweet strawberries.
Frosting like a heart—pink and red atop a brown, foiled pastry, and adorned with sprinkles on each curve and the elevated centre. Sprinkles like hearts, shades of red.
Small, carmine sausages in a thick bread roll had darkened edges and crispy tips. Altogether, gathered in a white, stubby bowl, like pigs in a blanket, rolling in the snow.
Maroon and aureolin mingled in the beaker, and when raised to the shimmering, shining sun, every bit of pulp is palpable to sight. Ice cubes jostled, fruit slices swirled.
Alongside candles, forks, flowers, and wrappers, the plates were placed on a cerulean checkered blanket, enveloping the mat, like a nourishing, fulfilling labyrinth of desserts and blossoms.
The blanket rested atop a soft, fluffy patch of grass, and the maple tree above, with bunches of leaves like clouds, shaded the desserts before me, and the flowers around— a picturesque, sunny, tranquil summer day.
Spry and Bright
Ten candles on a ten-layer cake A cake so tall a dentist wouldn’t approve Each flame the shade of rouge So I blow out the candles
Then the year after, eleven candles The flames are spry and bright I blow out the light
Next year, the cake will be crowded Lighting twelve candles seems like a chore, But extinguishing feels like rejuvenation Inhale, exhale, I blow out air
The year after will be thirteen Then fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen It may seem like a chore, But I will blow out each one.
Pulled In
Maroon red, lilac purple, amber gold. Aurora colours on the swooping wings Of fragile butterflies. It jumps from leaf To leaf and flashes its grand wings to watchers. A beautiful bright view, the watchers say.
If only their eyes shifted to the side: A moth with dull greyed wings sits on a wall. It is the dark sky—twinkling stars surround it. It is the canvas on which butterflies shine.
Its eyes spot flickering red flames on candles With shining vivid shades like sunset glow. Dull wings take flight, petite feet land on the Melting wax stand. It tiptoes closer, then Too close.
Flame touches, then spreads, then envelopes it. Fire eats its wings, thus forming deadly sheens. Fire steals its limbs in a colossal blur. Remains then sprinkle down as smoky ash. A startling bright view as it fully burns.
Now, I approach the dark tight alley that May be my flame. My mind is on fire, and My daring burns away. But people flutter Around me, mingling, giggling, and make me A shadow like dull gray smoked ashes, yet I am pulled in.
Grace Lee, a high school student in Seoul, South Korea, is passionate about words. Whether crafting stories or poems, she blends her unique perspective with Seoul’s vibrant culture. Excited to contribute to the literary landscape, Grace’s writing reflects the universal themes of adolescence in a big city.
You can find more of Grace’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Rosie, Rosie O’h stared back at her in the grubby mirror. She wasn’t an unclean person but she didn’t invest in the proper materials or possess the inclination really to do the due diligence on an awkward surface, like a mirror. In any case, the reflection peered into her world, thin, not as in ‘skinny’ but like hollowed out, a whittled down version of herself (ready for some craftsman to use a more supple tool on, to add some defining detail, a maker’s mark or patent).
A thoughtless exhalation escaped her frame, measured breaths couldn’t accommodate the weight of her preoccupation. It had felt heavy coming out of someone that slim.
A grunt of acknowledgement from her other half (a relationship that had sustained itself three months to present). They’d only toyed with the idea of co-habitation a little while. They got on well and bills are crippling, it had to be a win. She’d given her future some thought and it’s easy enough to change personal pronouns from ‘Me’ and ‘I’ to ‘Us’, and to ‘We’.
‘Shall I just order?’ He reclined his head right back against the throw, thoughtfully tucked into the creases of an otherwise rough and decomposing sofa, he could feel the stuffing inching in and out of place beneath him as he sat, completely vulnerable to it, his jugular region tenderly exposed, extended yet at ease toward her back, and facing the other Rosie in the glass.
‘Sure’, Rosie reacted slowly, patting then gripping at her notably flat belly gently and repetitively, still somewhat staring into the inverted room. She eventually recoiled from her own gaze, turning to him properly, with a miniature ball point change onto her tip toe from the hall to the living area they’d made, to lean over the back of the same sofa- stowing a hand familiarly between his poised neck and the top of the sofa to corner off what might have been a harsh angle.
She’d grazed the trail of a now healed burn on his neck with the action, from a one-year stint on the other side of the planet, fruit picking. The sap had oozed from above as he interfered with the plants, hacking at whatever was in reach to amount to the quota. It was then left to rot against him in the sun, keenly acidic, until the last of the bounty was collected for that day and he’d got to the shower. Needless to say, it festered but the high temperatures were hard to distinguish from fever, he’d pointed out to Rosie, and it hadn’t bothered him much, just left him with the wish it was a more lucrative trip. Others had worse infections although he’d never caught up with them properly about it. The thought of them being carted from the main accommodation building, lingered on his brow sometimes.
He smiled back at her, ‘I fancy a Pizza but I’m easy’.
‘I need the calories I guess’ probing at her inners again, this time harder. He pulled up the relevant app and clicked through to order, taking her hand from her stomach and putting it playfully behind her back, as if she couldn’t reengage it herself to form the same habit. She radiated warmth on account of the contact, pleasant friction of skin on skin.
They tracked the Delivery rider, keeping his phone out with page loaded, so as not to miss him. The video breathed through the phone’s microphone, the advert, was becoming familiar now. The tone had been refined from what was originally a bit creaky and Jehova’s Witness-ish to something that packed a bit of punch, drew on a half-formed thought and completed it in a hue you couldn’t have painted yourself without some time and stamina. Words swung loosely around a concept that gave a tip of the tongue effect, words rang out something tuneful along the lines of,
Health Optimization and Precision Economics:
If you could contain and commit the most valuable, but equally that basest portion of yourself and all its impulses, to absolute shrinkage. The part that deludes itself with passing fancies, idealises others yet ultimately undermines itself on a daily basis in the modern rush to have it all, to provide digital ticks against some inventory lacking any concrete, sustainability; That part, secured instead for the time when you’ve achieved its gratification.
Clinically reduced, it can be, until you can afford to be monetarily present, without suffering the loss of any of your physical vitality. So, between guaranteed shifts (of higher purpose), duty streamlined by this medical process- emotionally. Welcome to the Health Optimisation and Precision Economics pathway.
Anxiety, depression, self-induced crises spiralled by
Drink, drugs, worse even debt, gambling and such, coffees, brunches, flights and exploration (distractions) overseas, the Japanese and Kiwis, avocados, family- before you are truly ready, making work for idle hands, a life time of struggling financially, for what? Appearances? Escaping,
The road to consistency and therefore, happiness- Scientifically.
All these drains on your resources avoided convenient and easily- safety, ready to spring in spring, stowed for safekeeping under the umbrella of a truly respectable company, a 9-5, a family, of course all leading to when, one fine morning, you clock out and make the commute back to a home, not rented, not mortgaged-
your very own. Stamp Duty and taxes all accounted for,
Immune from the sticky claws of expectation where it’s not due, beaks with social media presences, hope-less competitions for historic houses, chain smoking or vaping under the duress of unsustainable social niceties- Long neglected as defined Privileges
It is sweet and natural, that these are elusive to you at such a tender age, and will be forever if you continue your wreckless course, pretention and anarchy, exposing your moral vulnerablilty on whims, matcha and oatmilk Lattes, so readily in ‘down-time’?
Wouldn’t you too, make that two to a mere five-year plan, your reality? Compressing all your most valuable qualities for when they have the proper place and timing to flourish, comfortably, affluently. A measured, a holistic vision,
The reasonable kind of newspapers all call it: A Triumph! An economic advance unbridled by lagging infrastructure that allows every Worker to feel, real, true and authentic -benefit.
Routine Economics and PPE
There were conspiracy theories floating about that graduate interns were being drugged? Kept in some kind of human meat packaging, until work rolled round for them to earn a decent living. Rejigged for the 9AM with zero expenditure, debt- the green.
It played during new movie releases, even at those artsy cinemas that would ordinarily maintain a distance from any thing remotely, or at least explicitly, political. It was a collective feeling. Dawning on them painfully slow, inevitable and big, even within the confines of the small domestic bliss where bills kept dropping in.
