Concentric Transmissions From The Satellite Sun
by Ratón Moreno On the corner, a house. Dead and black all over—crooked wood, like teeth; wheezing breaths of dying light—laying stagnant amongst rows of healthy houses on a street in Orange, or maybe Los Angeles, or maybe New York. Look: in the bottom left corner the wood was clean—somebody was just there a half-second ago. Look: in the top right window you see a silhouette of a man inserting a flaming …