The vault
Our editors bleed. Our authors vanish. What remains are these pages.
-
He’s not there
Something is off with him. I watch the way he arrives at the Villa, late, always damp from the Roman night, a tremor under his skin like he’s carrying ghosts in his coat pocket. Writers are liars, of course — that’s their trade — but there’s a particular kind of lie that tastes metallic, the…
-
Somewhere between flights
Airport light turns every face into a confession.
-
New York, 4:11 a.m.
The Foundry hums when no one’s here. I file the night into folders: desire, denial, delivery. One of them is always empty. I won’t say which.
-
Rome, 02:13 a.m.
The city edits me when I’m tired.