On new neighbourhood rites.
The problem with writing is I do not know if words are the very things I would most like to keep out.
There are things I'm hoping to find when the dust settles, and I tick them off like a grocery list I made when I still believed there could be a way to fill this house with light. Oranges, for the way I felt when busses took me to places I couldn't name, purified water for... Continue Reading →
If there was anything else to drink, we would happily forget how the rain is made and never again believe in the colour blue.