By Ynging Lee, Al Nungwang, Derchyi Wu
We turn out a bridge precept for harmonic maps among common manifolds.
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She needed some distance from I; she needed to be able to utilize a ﬁctive third, to be able to pull back in order to hear what those men might’ve said to one another. The truth, too: on that day, so delirious with sadness, she’d have never heard a word any of those men said to one another. She never would’ve thought about them. Fictive elements of “The Eighteenth Week” bear themselves out in her allowing herself, all those years later, to hear them — to complicate their lives with the truths of every life, even if the details themselves are altered.
And she thinks about the symmetry of parts, the body trying to replicate itself in miniature. Behind her bedroom wall, where the rooﬂine curves, the electrician talks to someone else about circuitry — such a beautiful word — even though this morning, there is only their purposefulness. To ﬁx the things that can be ﬁxed and replace what cannot. ” She hadn’t written ﬁction in many years and wrongly assumed those words — not even a proper sentence yet — had brought the genre back to her. Another thing was happening around the same time: her arms never empty, her hands never not holding him, she learned to write by memory.
Licks and riffs would ﬂow like sweet nectar. I longed to raise my arms in the devil horns salute and purchase the tour’s collectible tank top. I studied the band’s tour itinerary. They’d be playing Seattle one night, Vancouver the next. I wondered if their pornography would get conﬁscated at the Canadian border again. It occurred to me that they would be transported via bus. In fact, Mötley Crüe would be driving to Vancouver on Interstate 5, mere feet from my house. What if their bus broke down and they needed to use our phone?