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^{Stumble off the high dive. Gravity’s aide-de-plummet—arm, wrist, hand—falls. With this first attack, this first striking of string, the line hum is revealed to have been nothing but haze, merest medium without substance that might support the weight of sounding instrument. Falling and dispelling sheer folds, blank absence of tape

there is nothing save I’m listening, perhaps not even that.}

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_{Partner to a press called Tenement, Hotel is a publications series for new approaches to fiction, non fiction & poetry & features work from established & emerging talent. Hotel provides the space for experimental reflection on literature’s status as art & cultural mediator.}

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