

the initiatory process of editing NTTN began in the lowest desert, dead middle of sweltering summer, the hottest in a month of Sundays.
I honestly pine for wet rot. I admit it. At this point, we’re so far past decay.
Since I got heart surgery a month ago, I can hear my heart beating all the time. Apparently it’s normal.
A wide range of artists from a variety of disciplines deliver sinister incantations.
The Tyrant Queen of Iron City presents us with a bouquet of petty grievances.
The freaked-out, bored, alienated observations of the Beautiful Boy looking out on his suburban purgatory.
An imminently depressing, short, contemplative piece of empty, alien-world-wandering SF.
An attempt to locate a distinctly feminine “non-tyranical monstrosity” in Ted K’s life and work