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“To write or read on the precipice feels right in this moment in particular, as if it is coming into a new fullness, a wholeness which was not possibly entirely in the complacency of our living before, the city whose obverse was not at Necropolis yet. This is the moment when the skin of the fig gives into the needle of the wasp’s thorax, when the wasp breaks into the dark.” — A. V. Marraccini
To write or read on the precipice feels right in this moment in particular, as if it is coming into a new fullness, a wholeness which was not possibly entirely in the complacency of our living before, the city whose obverse was not at Necropolis yet. This is the moment when the skin of the fig gives into the needle of the wasp’s thorax, when the wasp breaks into the dark.