by nat raum Adrian Dascal let it be known: i am not grateful for tragedy. i hold no love for the years that have worn me thin as lived-in cotton, down to my memory who chose to keep only silence. the spaces within me that can still well with joy are reserved for the hours between midnight and four in the morning while the world stirs in their beds and i am aching i’m so alive. faint pulse rallies my muscles after i trudge home past two, but only for the glory of japanese whis