A hybrid, fairytale-like work in which narrative, gender, and selfhood scurry and wriggle like insects under an overturned log. The Connoisseur whispers and shrieks its prophecies, dotted with symbols and secrets. 21 pages. Hand-stitched. Letterpressed cover.

Flood waters swirl around my hands and knees. My lips form a soft O. A swarm of cockroaches (an ancient and noble species, from which EYE am descended) pours forth from my mouth. They drip infectious agents into the water, polluting our bodies, we are stuck to this mattress for all eternity, your cock still inside me. It is like a trapped animal, it thrashes and bites me, and you whisper, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but you can’t control the damn thing. It has abandoned you.