You Quit This Winter Past
a return to writing about cigarettes, but not smoking them, Death Cab For Cutie and the quiet beauty of impermanence.
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Pray for a true peace in space
I had no words for myself in the late 1980s when I obsessed over Metroid in the basement, only ideas. Desires that questioned the body, how it might be broken down and rebuilt into something better, even when I was so young.
Baby where’s a feast for the smile?
Hard, near impossible, to write so joyously about being so tired, and if you did not speak the language you would never know that these songs all feel so close to weary hearts.
An empty bit of good.
Let the machine work and drain and sputter and purge, may we dance and clap at what meagre pleasures it can conjure.
Make it easy, only just for a little while
I used to be on Google street view.