Conor Dooley

Fernando Music, a handless writer of erotic science-fiction, inadvertently predicts, in precise detail, our discovery of extraterrestrial life. This is the story of an expanding universe, in which all things grow apart, and in which Fernando still has no hands.

A sprawling story of love and loss, as reflected on a single face. Tiny pieces that, when cobbled together, hint at a much larger picture. The larger picture being a woman’s life. Observed through the decades. Centuries, even. You know. A comedy.

Fernando Music, a handless writer of erotic science-fiction, inadvertently predicts, in precise detail, our discovery of extraterrestrial life. This is the story of an expanding universe, in which all things grow apart, and in which Fernando still has no hands.

A sprawling story of love and loss, as reflected on a single face. Tiny pieces that, when cobbled together, hint at a much larger picture. The larger picture being a woman’s life. Observed through the decades. Centuries, even. You know. A comedy.