Now Is Not the Time to Panic

by Kevin Wilson

It’s what, I imagined, art looked like. Ugly and beautiful at the same time.

How did you prevent your life from turning into something so boring that no one wanted to know about it? How did you make yourself special?

I wondered if that was kind of the purpose of art, maybe, to make you see things that you knew but couldn’t say out loud.

The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers. We are fugitives, and the law is skinny with hunger for us.

I was a fugitive, and I was not ready to be caught yet.

Every single thing that you loved became a source of both intense obsession and possible shame. Everything was a secret.

They had not realized that I was also invincible, I guess, and it made them wary of my power, of what I could do to them.