Things at the edge are at the center of Kate Northrop’s cuntstruck: a man squatting on a roof with his arms around his knees, kids running over the roofs of row houses at night, ghost decorations tied into trees, the unfocused eyes of the Scrambler attendant at the fair, the circle of foam around a storm drain. The world of cuntstruck is at once the world that was there (the drive-in that now is only a field) and the world that wasn’t (the one we walk around and around but can find no way into); it is winter (a man in the empty road in the snow)...