About T.

You walk because I say walk, T. Through cornfields hacked by machines, into forests speaking in bird bone runes, past witches’ ladders hanging limp in twisted branches. You’re wrecked; your shoes are torn; the stars are all maps and myths and open wounds. This is the long hallucinatory walk back to something unrecognisable. A fugue state slurred into being. This is our sleepwalk in the second person. Or a distorted/split first person. Maybe your dissociative inner monologue? Either way, I am your muttering inner god. The narrator of our story pulling us through the underbrush by our teeth.