Michael Ricketti | UNTITLED

He finished. Peeled the lemon away. The music from the spun the evaporation of sound the music incongruent to this place. He finished. The slatted window view. A woman on the street walked with a man she held. She held an umbrella against the sun. We are of the colorless dust the rages. He kept…

Want to keep Reading?

Already a subscriber? Sign in below.