Isthmus Thus

Isthmus Thus is a novel alive. Brace yourself for the undiscovered treasure of your own immanence. It is stirring in the trees and bustling in the breeze. It is the story of coming to know anything at all. Of loving, of leaving- of setting records straight. The novel clarifies even as it confuses. This is the story of myself struggling to find the meaning of a question. Striving to fling starfish from sand to surf and coming face to face with the pretense of my own derision. I dig my hands into the sand of my mental beach and watch the world fall at my feet. And I hope that somewhere, someone has listened to that love bore between these lines and found the heart has flooded in wordless relief. Do not take half-a-bite of this novel, for it will leave you bitter and dissatisfied. If you choose to, swallow and ravage this like it were a lullaby and you were dressing down for sleep. You will find its relevance rustling in the distant meadows, a crow's callous caw blasting blasphemed banter at a misshapen moon.