Here I am, sitting in the car with the engine off and a poster draped over the steering wheel. I’m trying to utilise my time better, you see? It wasn’t a new year’s resolution but a necessity: too many hours wasted at work, getting paid to do nothing, too chicken to blog or go on Facebook. The poster stares back at me: scores of pickled Voldemort heads in a sea of waves. Lakes of text. The font is small, the lines are treacherous; I skate over them and sometimes slip into a different story. This poster magazine is for Art (with a capital ‘A’) and writing. I admire the gnat-sized fiction of Laura Middlebrook —’#1′ is repetitiously yellow and ‘#3’ is a muffled love-guilt—and Daniel Walker but am unmoved by the Patrick Lenton, a leviathan in comparison; I fear that such larger creatures of work cannot survive the manufactured rivers of text, which have orphaned more than just words and phrases, until Chris Somerville’s quiet violence in ‘Most Brilliant White Light’ sustains me the whole way down the page, and everything’s okay again.