sometimes i deserve a capital I everyone loves a writer, loves to watch paper fill as a pencil moves in blurring. it’s a sub-conscious fascination. it’s why she smokes that way…
innocent wallpaper through the wall, i can hear a family failing next door. a couple in the thirties, nearly, average intelligence. i think they drink. they stopped fighting
painting for lemonade an ancient man, brittle on a wooden stool, slowly painting his gate-post. a day of raw sunshine, but autumn will soon roll over the horizon. by winter the
there’s few things more tragic than a wasted condom deep in the night - somewhere around 4am, i crawl awkwardly from the bed. cold rubber against the sole of my foot,
cortege like an eel, the cars crawl in a line over the curling russet cushioned carpet. shiny black metal polished with late afternoon sun, a solemn, sluggish pace set