ochre raze she was last seen in public on the third of the month. she hasn't left her mother's house since. she came here to die. in her final interview, conducted over the phone, her speech is halting but clear, coloured by an accent no one can place or explain. it was never there before. "there's a stadium of men now," she says. "this ... this tiny thing that smells like ochre." an ai image generator shows a woman standing in the middle of a road no car has closed its eyes to kiss. night. the scent of unsent letters and baked clay. smoke curls from both nostrils and rises to find what hasn't yet been burned. dark hair wrapped around the soft sestina of a hollow skull. this isn't her. it isn't anyone. 260831 what's it to you? who go blather from