This is a work of the slow, dark magic language can be when a writer lets words fall—in fragments or spiraling syntax—down into the wet loam of memory and presence, down into the susceptible body. Jaramillo’s example and invitation is to add to this substrate our vomited sovereignty. That’s how we’ll join the constellations of these sequences, themselves part of “the world’s intelligence in excess of the instruments.” So distributed, reader, we could destroy the systems of shallow feeling and fast value so this book may be more than our dearly-held secret. Let’s.
— Farid Matuk