an ant trail of connections and disconnections. spontaneous combustion of suddenly unknowing somebody - but i don't mind. always trying to catch the zing in everything. the love of words and the love of visuals(or making) don't have to be extreme so i hate that people make either side to be fluff. i leaned towards one side and i'm now trying to grow into the other and both has made me look at the world a little fuller, more metaphysical, more concrete, more rich, more poor, more hard work, more laziness, more monotone, more pastel, more colouring, more minute, more global, more (horror, instead of hate), more love.

i like christmas glass balls.

tinsel and ribbons. bales of cloth. blank paper. raw chunks of wood. skin on grass.

i think there are some people who have never felt grass with their bare feet. i miss my picnics at greenmeadows, and the brickwall with the circle cut out where i would fit my then skinny frame into the curve and lie and read my book(s) . i will need a wall like that in my house next time, and creaky timber floors, and some grass to wiggle my toes in. textured childhood. etched like a birth mark. i grew up in a garden and i think it was paradise.