The smell of ink, of blue colors on the paper, of machines that don't stop. Loose Leafs, color tests, hidden mistakes. What I read, what you understood, what he saw. Rereading and proofreading. Rewriting and compose. This was our month. Warm August, feet in the river, head spinning. Long nights, days without end. Moving forward and backward. Going north, scoot to south. And, in the end, peace, disguised in paper. Six months in 120 pages. A magazine complete, two souls in quiescency.