By: Olivia Mott ’12, Editor-in-Chief
The cutout, heavy and serrated, balances in the crack of light – hazy and brown. Which is nearly blended with the darkness. Sitting in the closet, bare feet tucked under bathing suit – wet, wet, dripping on the wooden planks of the floor. Waiting. Which is like fruit – sharp and long. Which is a heartbeat slipping, skipping, gone. At night it happens. But here, it is the same. Which is pretending. Which is saying it didn’t happen. Like Justine imagining William’s small form stretched on the riverbank. Which is corruption. Which is nature.