it was months ago when i picked rosehips along my path home by the sea, slipping each one like a little gold nugget into the pockets of my grey, zip-up jumper. i’d imagined doing it so many, many times, like a child in a candy shop, reaching up to pluck the beauties down; this time,…Read more i dream of rosehip tea.
prose
The Ever-Processing Machine
I can’t find my incense. I don’t want to write. I desperately want nothing more than to write. For ever. So then, perhaps I’m just a stymied masochist at heart(less), doomed to miserable inaction for the rest of my days. I do not dedicate myself as I should, as I need. . . There’s a…Read more The Ever-Processing Machine
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Musingly, Further
Further Always )i’ve a notion tonight that there’s a further way to live than i do, and that it is far from impossible to live. i’ve always believed so, but this feeling tonight is like rubber on the road, like violets peeking out of soil, like music from strings of gut — organic and all…Read more Musingly, Further
