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What happens to people after they remove themselves from your life? Do they live in the music they listened to? What happens to a genre of norteño-corrido when it repurposes the language of West Coast rap? What happens when dreams and reality intersect? What happens when the job you dreamed of is alienating and sad?

The idea of disembodiment has resonated with me lately, mostly in its impossibility; no matter how far we detach from ourselves there is still some thread adhering us to our bodies, to the habits through which we digest reality. The stories in this issue of Maura Magazine almost all deal with some form of disembodiment, of things not being themselves, or reappearing in totally dissonant times and locations.

Among them is Maura's EMP Pop Conference paper on the latent flourishes of Beatesesque pop in '90s hard rock bands looking to appear legitimate. Lin VanderVliet contributes a piece about the album Only in Dreams by Dum Dum Girls, and the nature of dreams as a kind of antidote for reality. Josh Langhoff put together a massive and impressive history of hyphy norteño, a subgenre that flowered and died in the ecosystem of 2000s norteño music. Our cover story for this issue is Melissa Leavitt's gorgeous memorial of her father, which details her attempts to rediscover him in the music of Jackson Browne.

None of these essays provides an answer, exactly, for the spectral void which separates us from our dreams, from the people who've disappeared from our lives. But each tries to inhabit it as carefully as possible, trying to find language for untranslatable states of mind and of being. It's the closest we can get.