
Guest Editorial – Sam Ribet
The first time I saw a Coromind magazine was when my English teacher was waving it above the class, explaining we could submit a piece of our writing to potentially have it published.

The first time I saw a Coromind magazine was when my English teacher was waving it above the class, explaining we could submit a piece of our writing to potentially have it published.

As artists ourselves, as well as working professionally within the arts, we know first-hand the complexities, joys and exhaustion of it all. One of the best things that keeps us going and keeps us inspired is getting that fresh issue of Coromind.

When the first issue of Coromind came out, I already knew it would be something special. I had been friends with Leo and Taylor for years, and watched them pour their creativity and energy into Altbays Table Talk …

It’s hard to describe. That feeling in your chest as the music reaches within, grasping your core, sending vibrations throughout your entire being. When nothing exists but you and that rhythm as you melt and connect into something primal.

The faulty fluorescent light of the laundromat in the town of Waihī buzzed like an angry fly, casting a flickering glow on the worn-out linoleum.

The first time I saw a Coromind magazine was when my English teacher was waving it above the class, explaining we could submit a piece of our writing to potentially have it published.

As artists ourselves, as well as working professionally within the arts, we know first-hand the complexities, joys and exhaustion of it all. One of the best things that keeps us going and keeps us inspired is getting that fresh issue of Coromind.

When the first issue of Coromind came out, I already knew it would be something special. I had been friends with Leo and Taylor for years, and watched them pour their creativity and energy into Altbays Table Talk …

It’s hard to describe. That feeling in your chest as the music reaches within, grasping your core, sending vibrations throughout your entire being. When nothing exists but you and that rhythm as you melt and connect into something primal.

The faulty fluorescent light of the laundromat in the town of Waihī buzzed like an angry fly, casting a flickering glow on the worn-out linoleum.