Ruth Medea Englunder, a cigarette hanging out of her lips like the end of the world, plays with fire and waits to get burned, a Cassandra whose prophecies no-one believes. Medea who dreams of the red barn and feels the world, all hundred million years of it. Medea who believes she’s nocturnal, and an asshole. Medea who is conjured from the Deep South by Lindsay Seigel and ended up in New York against her will. New York where the adrift little human beings clog the streets, from sky-high apartment buildings to down in the gutters, lashing themselves, strolling slowly towards death like bonfires. And Lindsay, whom Medea pulled back from the brink and into the fire, said: “Let’s not just pass away the days.” Lindsay who wished mercy on the little flames that keeps the world ablaze, the world afraid to burn, to live. Medea and Lindsay with their feet wounded and black soled from running and hiding, a folie a deux, a parole waiting to be violated. Yearning for an escape from the encroaching entropy, the falling apart, the coming chaos.
“Come all you explainers of nights to men, all you dividers of rights, you well-wishers, you swayers of minds. Come and breathe fire with me. And tomorrow we shall be gone. That much fire and envy. Envy for more,” says Jesse S. Mitchell with his inimitable and poetic prose, a story of the fire of life in the night. Because nothing is ever complete.