Now submit.  Submit.  Sub mit.   To the hours, the stairs  the uncertainty of the floor tilting beneath your raised foot. To echoes of whirling voices, dissonance and rain bouncing  on borrowed graves. To pushing, pausing  wondering if this holds meaning  or sympathies for floppy haired fascism.    We do…

On the hour that inhabitation infinity came to an end, my time device stopped working. I will not archive it. I will not repair it. I will keep it and wear it around my ankle as a reminder of what I experinced and learned doing the magical time in the…