“Unlocking the Secrets of ‘Streams’: Marcos Reyna’s Journey Through Time and Memory”
X. Albuquerque, 2019
The Sandia Mountains are vast enough to make their own weather. Clouds in fleets gather at their summits, and some mornings, when the barometric pressure is low enough, strati fall from the heights to cover the metropolis below. On those days, there is something in the air that feels like anticipation.
XI. Albuquerque, 2023
The nights are quieter now. I sleep with a noise machine—a sonic estuary of sorts. It blends every upstream sound until the sharper edges of memory are smoothed, until sleep fits flush in the palm. It whirs a sound that sounds like nothing, which is another way of saying it sounds like everything. River song, silty shores, breaking waves. Wind blasting through thickets, dirge of falling leaves. Or the instruments of trains. Some nights, I dream of them.
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