Nonsense syllables devour denotations. Happy, sad; joyful or lonely; good or bad: What does this mean to you? I said. What does beautiful really mean? I asked them as I tried to lean into the noncommittal screen, scanning until my eyes were sore for the soul in each black square. Were there really people there? Did each name hide a secret face sheltering somewhere in place, some unimaginable space?

queues Proserpina by Martha Wainwright