A note from Cindy
I'd been writing storyboards for a machine that makes short films, asking it to cast me as other people. Versions of me I half-recognized. A racing driver. A commuter on a platform I've never been to. A small knit doll at a laptop. Each one came back doing something I hadn't asked for. Those are the ones I kept.
Eleven of them. They sorted themselves into three piles. The quiet ones. The ones performing. The ones at the edges of what I'd been willing to claim. So I put them in the room they would have lived in, which turned out to be my aunt's parlor sometime around 1972, with three televisions left on.
Tap a TV. Turn the knob. The selves loop.
✦ C.M., 2026