Dawn. Somewhere in Atlas Mountains, Morocco. Jim stares out at the mist-soaked valleys, which lie like the fallen limbs of sleeping giants, tangled in a duvet of fog after some Brobdingnagian orgy. I honestly think if I hadn’t been there, Jim would have just walked and walked, till he landed in the giants’ arms or…
Content warning: themes of sexual assault
In the winter of New Delhi, the birds of prey drew imaginary circles below the smog; they wouldn’t be seeing blue for a long time. The buildings that surrounded my hotel were hungover, power lines strewn over their stocky bodies like streamers at the end of a party. The…