November looks like this:
Pale thin violet first frost against a full moon.

The end of time
is a slow passing into the other
            (first the tips of my fingers
            and then everything else (
            To remind me) I am not the centre
which draws itself into itself	  into itself 	into itself.
The centre itself is the vapid,
porous edge of each day
Passing into itself 	into itself	    into itself,
as it spills into the next.
I’d like to write and tell you all of this.
It would already be this –
There is nothing but the circle

There is no hope	but	the present haunting us forever
There is no hope	but	the present
There is no hope	but		      		  forever.	

Magdalaina Teeuwsen is an MA student based in Montreal-Tiohtià:ke. She studies absence and mysticism and spends her time sitting by the river, going for runs, and reading books. When she is not engaged in these pursuits, she is otherwise wasting her potential.