I love all the things there are, and of all fires love is the only inexhaustible one; and that’s why I go from life to life, from guitar to guitar, and I have no fear of light or of shade and almost being earth myself, I spoon away at infinity. - Pablo Neruda
Snowflakes bloomed under our feet. We danced in silver moonlight as the skies shed a single star in melancholic ecstasy. I saw you through lachrymose lids. Up on the limb, you were spellbound by multi-coloured sounds, you were young and beautiful. I wanted to remember you like this, in the light of dark, in the tomb of night. Stillness is part of the performance of sun and moon. Di Chiricho painted the world’s chaotic infancy in their hearts, two symbiotic beings, only recurrent through lucid dreams. I looked at the sky and began to count stars, my voice reverberating off lake water settling somewhere on a distant rooftop as rain. Creamy droplets came fast, bringing grey clouds down with them, and bounced on drums, pianos, beating violently against a fragile world. Perhaps we can fulfill that last line and believe in nothing but love. I swallowed my history in one gulp, the wine sliding down my throat, like dark, muddled memories. We were haunted from the moment that we met we were each other, we were the plants, and life went on. Water seeped into my hair as I tried to make an angel, freezing the music in my head. I stood, weak, heart pounding, and watched snowflakes fill in the space, its shape already soft, distorted, gone, in seconds. I read the stories in the sky once upon a time, in the perfect golden eternity, as we swayed under blinking neon lights, those I took to be blankets of endless stars. The earth sang to me when our hearts were invincible, in the dark sanctuary of lovers. All of it made sense amidst love and infinite white light. For now let’s agree to love madly, I say before I wake.
This issue explores art, fashion, music and literature diverging from and towards surrealism.