A. Merc Rustad

There’s no real power in this—it’s just something I do to try to make myself less afraid when the monsters are near

’s like a throat that doesn’t start with a mouth or end in lungs

and then the throat sighs behind me

big, heavy gust of moist air tickles the hairs on my skin

when I turn back, it’s still just paint on a rooftop

and I ain’t never been right in the head

Yes. The city is breathing easier

This is the lesson: great cities are like any other living things, being born and maturing and wearying and dying in their turn

’m the midwife, see

I should consider meditation to better attune myself to the city’s needs