I woke up in a garden or maybe it was a field somewhere, I’m not quite sure.
All I could hear were crickets and I felt myself being pulled into an immeasurable gulf of space, womb-like, as if at the beginnings of time.
In Nearby Buffalo the body is explored as if it has no name, no memory, like a ghost, erased, unborn. Micro-stories frame snapshots of a world either in the past, present or future, skimming surfaces of perception. The question is, does the modern world still exist? And where are all the people?
