.....I heard the sound of a broken violin string coming from deep inside the forest, amplifying strangely and disproportionately as it made its way to my ear through all that came its way. It rustled leaves, electrified crickets’ spines, dashed through branches, and took a walk in time, past-present. It caressed over an expired kinship, which expired rather hastily and bitterly and was sealed by a pulp mythology.It whispered to a death forcibly rendered docile, domesticated with distortion, inflamed by asymmetry and unfairness, which left only droplets of breath on a hand-held mirror over blue lips in the nighttime; words and tongue thus killed the killed yet again. It gave a nursery rhyme, non-sense, no-logos, perhaps reconcilable only outside of action and thought that went: “hair-spike, arachnid-hole, bloodsmell, wrestle-dog, brokenail, rusty-kill, ferry-feel, horizon-hole, bee-seat, patient-bore, luna-park, cracked-cob, yellow-kitchen, spit-bough, pine-bug, always-glow.” which also resembled a makeshift incantation shared amongst children or old blood who thought their hopeful delirium would make their friends invisible or turn the tide in favor of them. It sung a one-note song, inexhaustible, through the collosal fault lines and into the foundation of a building built before the great earthquake, which was unaware of its impending communion without destruction with its distant peers. It shook a body out of its thinly spread slumber, made it think it’s the end of its days, and amidst the moment of terror, like pulling hair out of butter, it pulled a memory of a place out of its memory. The solitary walk that the short-circuit re-fleshed was now conductive, and it summoned playful ghosts, and in all its echoing and burring, the sound of the broken string had now started to gain gravity; it grew cartilage, ligaments, and limbs, and at last, when it settled into its temporary form, it buzzed me through the turnstile for forty-five liras before it vanished back into the forest....