You wait. Listen to the last sounds of night and of a living house, the bones of which ache with blight and whispers. It waits as you do for the blackest hour before dawn. Your grandmother will be home soon. Your grandmother goes out in the dark.

It’s a story for the ages. Or a sign of the times, perhaps. Three broken ribs. A speck of blood. I fell in love.

Country road. Horizon black against the day’s dying light. Starlings bloom above a field. Radio on. Radio off. The car ride spent in nervous silence.

There is nothing more metal than trans rights

Ok, hear me out. A Lord of the Rings re-make, but with these two taking the One Ring to Mordor:

Recently, I’ve noticed a lot of people advising against engaging with dark or bleak art when you’re in a bad mental space, but all I can think about is how that kind of art has saved me from my worst impulses during my lowest points.