Forgive this mess of mental shipwreck: a surfeit of nights pacing an isolated geography of ephemeral balance, with so many books open and torn like beaten birds. Boxed-in breezes amble along impersonal wallpaper, lingers like smoke at cubist edges, folding like an inverted sea. At the windowsill a dead fly hides in stale accumulations. Slackening moods reduce the room to a single undivided pane drenched in bone-light. Entering the windows low clearance upsets the silence, (a heavy exhale of egress) disrupts the amassed, (animating piles of pages, smearing dusts’ history) passing through at the height of a lowly creature. Noises skim the underbelly of unknown—unable to tell from this distance if it’s the ocean or static.
Ethan Phibbs currently resides in the outgrown shoes of his hometown, Jacksonville, Illinois, where he works odd jobs, reads and writes. An avid traveler, he hopes to experience every rich culture our world has to offer. His work is forthcoming in Unbroken Journal, Mulberry Fork Review and Ink In Thirds.