Real journals wear pink.  What makes a literary journal a journal and not a chance encounter of paper, words, and glue is that the works inside cohere to a shared, unspoken idea. Unspoken because such an idea cannot be articulated, only expressed in ways both subjective and shared. From this, works are then submitted or saught by editors with an established criteria, on the basis of which submitted works may be rejected or accepted without much room for compromise or consolation. Not only then, is the manner of production individualized, reinforcing the solitary stereotype of writing, but the qualifications for publication are predetermined by an elite inner circle whose motivations may or may not be transparent and who may even suck at writing themselves. We find this kind of unfair and detrimental towards not only the beauty of writing, but towards the act of writing, and the writers involved.

This year, in gleeful rebellion, we've decided to open up the editorial circle to a non-exclusive group who mutually decide the criteria for publication and generate the content to be published, through a series of creative writing workshops/organizational meetings (we prefer to call them dinner parties) where we, well, write and converse. But we do not write freely, we enslave ourselves to experimental constraints that strain our unique voices through a uniform filter, so that what words emerge from the other end are neither yours nor mine but ours and nobody's. It is with this philosophy we conceive of the journal as more than a book; it is a body, because, while a body has differing organs, they all share the same skin.

Confused? Inspired? Afraid? That's ok, so are we. We invite you, no, we implore you to come to a meeting and converse, no, consult, no, confront us, because every voice is a perturbation that affects, ever so slightly, the development of the body, like how a butterfly flapping its wings in South America can cause a hurricane in Texas, eventually.