Marco Vasquez

Twenty-three days, fourteen hours, thirty-seven minutes.

I’m aware because the timer is inscribed on the part of my eyelids now in red script that endlessly moves.

We find ourselves inside the cathedral that ought not to be, with thirty feet of marble beneath us the heart suspended overhead like a butcher’s trophy pulsing slow and self-satisfied. The gold chains clink when they sway, a noise resembling subway tokens rattling in a metal cup. The atmosphere is heavy, with the ...