Many of these pieces have appeared in other forms -- I have them as zines, I have them collected together in other volumes. But this was intended to bring definitive form and closure to a decade of seeking and it feels like it. Words and images have been elegantly tweaked since past appearances, each piece creates a thematic bleed with what comes before and after, structures vary and echo to carve out a narrative space that wholly belongs to Kitchell by this point, death and desire spin like planets, and all builds into a logical/irrational conflagatory holism of form and content with the culminating, never-published novella Hotel, which I've been waiting for since 2012 or so. Now we have it. Towers rise and fall, the field burns to scorched level ground. Endless in-coiling layers are released into pure possibility. And what, possibly, can come after?