There's a new issue of New York Tyrant coming out and I have a story in it, "Boy". Here's now it starts--

He'd found something blue to use as a voice, and soon the entire sky was implicated by him: there were no edges to its or his accumulation. For a time in the presence of what I took to be his mood, I was confused—uncertain what was or wasn't an aspect of his identity, I thought everything was or wasn't, a back-and-forth of consecration and profanation that included in their extent the realm of all things and all people, living and dead. And so at both ends of my existence I butted up against him, and unable to live or die I became a thing that only slowly, after much time, is no longer associated with any idea. As an artifact of a time in which I had lived, I did not live, I persisted—if form were given to the shape I made, that form would coincide precisely with Earth's revolutions, and from a space dislocated from ideas I would appear no different from any mystery caught in the pull of another mystery's gravity.

Here you can preorder the issue.