Contributing writer

Yash Kumbhat

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I: FLOAT (pt. 3)

Behind him, she can see the reflected moon, the wide and languorous shores of darkness surrounding it, broken only by pinpricks of diffused light. What she sees — solitary glimmerings in the distance — are stars still in the past. In the millions of miles between them and her, time has aged, transformed from past to present.

I: FLOAT (pt. 2)

All the voices that clamor for the surface appear only a string of hollow sounds that float lightly to the top, like bubbles in a flute of champagne, and sit there for a moment before each pops with a gentle explosion.


The pub has not yet begun to overflow when F and K arrive. It is quite small, lit by dull lights like old, folded sunsets and full of stumbling bodies, all fluttering in circles on an invisible, drunken carousel that floats haltingly past the bar (an oaken, straight line pockmarked with rings and stars of wine and whiskey) and through a careful pattern of wooden tables and chairs

An Invitation

And then, suddenly, at 13, the parents left us to our own devices, and the invitations grew scarce, shriveled like raisins. I was invited to some things — not all, never all — at first. I smuggled abandoned friends, hidden in pockets and backpacks, across gates with me; they smuggled me.

A Life in Three Shirts

Maybe we believe that those selves are authentic, and maybe that works for some of us! But maybe there is no concrete sense of self to be found, after all. Maybe we’re all the same, and maybe that can be liberating, too.

Keeping Alive

Can faith be more than struggling to keep things from dying? Maybe, there is nothing in the world that we can separate from death.