Layers of Zoe

Layers of Zoe

https://www.layersofzoe.net/

Errata

I wanted to be clean. By clean I mean: no residue, no transfer, no trace on the glass. A kind of ethical hygiene. Love entered as it does – without credentials – and put its thumbprint on everything I called mine. I called it fate to avoid calling it appetite. I offered

#35. Access Not Granted.

The television drips. Saturday leaks down the wall. My mouth speaks facts about forged papers. The papers grow legs and wander into WhatsApp. Someone lifts a phone like a seashell. Inside it: my name, warped, echoing. A man assembles relevance from spare parts: a cousin, a discipline, a place I

#11:13.

at 11:13 she checks herself as one checks the sea has tea and toast with the dogs he wears the face with the accusation says it is nothing she says right again thinking how expensive it has become to erase the lines on her forehead the day splits like

#6:47.

The message pings at 6:47. It wakes the floorboards. Then the dogs. Then the thought that the world has changed. The curtains observe. The kettle prepares. An old lawyer in Monaco wants her thoughts on a case he calls complicated. He does not ask for her time. He moves

#32. Gate, Attempting Something Else.

The gate has been trying to confess for weeks. First it claimed the motor was tired. Then the card reader had lost conviction. Then the central unit no longer recognised the hour. Each update arrived as a minor truth, delivered with the calm of one who believes the next sentence

#٣٠. Curated Mischief.

Applied for a job in Riyadh On my lunch break, a whim of curated mischief. Checked “Approach to Ethics” and “Other.” They’ll never know how much subversion can fit into a checkbox — when you’ve spent a lifetime being one.

Consultor Emeritus Infernus: Ricardus

I. Clearance The floor slicks open. He steps down – like a man arriving at his second home. Coat unwrinkled. Soul unclaimed. No trumpets. Just the low hum of paperwork completing itself. A demon glances up, checks the clipboard. [cursor blinks – he’s been here before] “Oh. You.” Someone lights a

#29. Man Submits Theory.

There is a man who draws diagrams on the surface of closed doors. He says they explain what’s behind them. Sometimes someone inside is screaming. He calls that symbolic interference. Later, in a quiet magazine, he folds the siren into origami. He says: look, a theory. Down the hall,

#27. December, Maybe.

The days fall out of sequence again. The fork appears before the hand, then the window – then the question: ‘Is this morning, or just another sentence with light in it?’ ⸻ Someone says something kind. She touches it with gloves on. The compliment writhes a little. She leaves it on the

April/October

for W.B., honoured on his birthday 23 October 2025 I. It was October, but they sang like April. Their voices wavered – age inside the strain. A red carnation pinned to each lapel. A fado, then a harvest song – off-plane. Born under watch, he crossed a darker path – a child

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