Contributor: Uzodinma Okehi - - The lanceolate rush of ruled lines, of sunsets, of inked suns setting in pencil, of minutes, hours and days, right to this point. The something of something, get it? The butyrate fuse. The eclectic substrate of this and that, of childhood, your little tragedies, and you’ve got nothing but mean-time consider it. The tension, as always is also music, a kind of bad poetry, while the drawing itself is still pure science, like numbers, hard to crunch . . . And Sakura, if nothing else, I’ll take comics by titration drip, drip by drip, or that clack, clack of the wall-clock hands, in my ears and climbing like the roar of a hurricane. Sakura, what’s left but those comics I said I’d draw, those legends, and how legendary does it seem to imagine me here sitting in my long-john underwear, still drawing, but you’d...

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Author: Uzodinma Okehi