
The Old Musician, by Edouard Manet
January 10, 2026

By DS Maolalai
I feel the trees grow. the ache // which must echo through timber // and expansion of solidity.

I once told a therapist my father was molesting me. It wasn’t true. I was twenty-five and exhausted, lying awake most nights trying to understand why I felt so sad when nothing in my life was obviously wrong.

Here I am, looking at this copy of a // two hundred-dollar book.