Open, Heaven

a slow burn, i dare say. the empty pages at the very end of the book tell it all. seán hewitt himself said to read this during summertime, which i did, and i have to disagree. this is pure autumn: crisp air, fading light, leaves curling at the edges. this debut novel was everything i want in a book: sad, hopeful melancholy with a hint of nonchalance and some poetry. it lingers like the last lines of a song you cant quite forget. if this doesnt end up a bestseller, i truly don’t know whats wrong with yall.