On new neighbourhood rites.
On not writing
The problem with writing is I do not know if words are the very things I would most like to keep out.
Nothing like a horse
If there was anything else to drink, we would happily forget how the rain is made and never again believe in the colour blue.
By the lake
In another life, all I would do is find new names for the colour green, and it would be enough.
The end of a world as we know it.
I am still so much even as I am less and less.
As good a time as any to write the way I knew I would one day come back to, and start from.
Oranges pt. 2
It’s not easy coming home.
Speaking about sunshine and the ocean and not speaking about either.
On the birds
On coming and going, and biding your time in the in-betweens.