Contributions by Elijah Mendoza

A gut-check cringe away from hope—a taste laid wide against the tongue that I can’t swallow— and you’ve already flown the paths I follow.

Where will we end up? Persistent hum of tires is our story, and eventually the color of each signpost has its meaning.

Before we’d been outside the islands of our shitty neighborhoods, we weren’t angry. Only when the sun beat down we dripped with sweat, revealed tanned chests in the backyard, and played the radio.