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Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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------- Maybe the sleeping waterweeds will survive in this den with me, Resident 97 said, pretty up the air with its long buoyant leaves like ripples redirected to radiate out from the center.


Resident 97 had made sure to make of The Observatory a lived-in home for himself. For all its deliberate loneliness, it had gathered the romantic idyll of the house Rilke described in his Schmargendorf diary, “of the house that roses embrace ever more tightly, of the trees in bloom, of a tall fir and a yellow oriole that flew over it”.


------- Perhaps this is what lumen naturae could have meant, Resident 53 replied, indifferent to whether her insight added to the discourse. The light of nature as if nature could reveal something more than itself, she continued, to point to something incomprehensible and unsayable, beyond even metaphor, isn’t that an interesting idea that’s at once propulsive and circumnavigating?

                                          -Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé


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Maybe such binomial talk was too sad because it reneged on all the promises the Residents had come to know and trust, even if these beliefs were nothing more than vapor in their eyes. It was easy for the Residents to believe in something theoretical, a construct of their own imagined universe, because the dualistic and concrete was always too easy to shatter on Utopia 11. The land didn’t shift, it positively fell from under you, so your new house would have to have been built like a Cubist’s Sphere, its corners and edges negotiating all the axes of the new gravitational bolts and pulls. There was no day, no night, no regularity, no charted times, no stock binaries and certainly no leaving the isthmus on which teetered their small livelihood and grandiose plans for permanent inhabitation. No one had hobbies anymore because their Cartesian ingenuity couldn’t transcend itself or past the object directly in front of them. No one slept because their eyes had no lids or avascular lashes, and had grown accustomed to the pain, of imbibing luminescence instead of letting it touch your skin, and share the air between

                                         -Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé