hunter gather frank hinton
The harbour takes a breath, its shape like an old heart. Cold metric tonnes of seawater flood this ancient glacial reservoir, slime and algae trace the coves. Every breath slaps dark water along the coastline, the efflorescence of an entire city is in process, but it’s slow, sufferable. The black ocean spreads on the horizon, it is the time of day where sky and sea are indistinguishable. It’s raining like piss tonight. From some spot in the black a shape moves, a girl. She steps from a small apartment building covered in a flimsy hood and coat. She picks her way through the coastal detritus and finds a small path that guides her towards the city. Building lights speckle the night before her, though buildings themselves are indistinguishable from the sky. The girl twists her head at the firmament of lights, blinks rain from her eyes, walks. The fenestrations blur. There is a certain strength in her step, she pushes forward up a hill.
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