Oliver de la Paz

Without the noise of home I learn to hear my body’s own sound. It is like sleeping in a narrow boat, waters slapping at the wooden sides wanting to carve a space already hollowed out. The failure of the body’s quiet is the triumph of the ear— having been pressed to the ...

He should have stayed home and didn’t move beyond seeing himself in the windows of the storefronts, Vegas, Rodeo Drive, the palm lined streets of Miami where petrichor sticks to sinuses and where the secretly despised teens in bikinis cast wide gazes. All this languor tugs him ...