He knew her before I did.

Don’t wait for me.

Had Picasso painted a bird.

I’m still waiting, we all are…

Bosch reveals the pitfalls of blindly following others, of wanting what they have and propelling a collective greed.

We lose it, manage it, save it, waste it, then wish we had more of it. Time has become a kind of slippery, anxiety inducing method of measuring life, constantly grappled with.

This strained choreography continued agonisingly. His efforts seemed risky with the air thick and rain threatening. Each book, one at a time.

Etta James’ voice leaves me breathless. But not in the usual way.

As though I’d crossed an invisible threshold and been sucked into another world…I was shopping in a life-sized doll house.

Flakes of red get caught in the deep ravines of her upper lip…

In my bedtime stories, I was the Secretary General of the United Nations. 

You’ll be told to say hello to everyone
look them in the eye,
Smiling at a small community - earn your place.
But please don’t tell them everything,
just in case.

As he walks he holds his posture in a V shape, hinging from his hips, his torso leans back, to balance the weight of the huge stomach that cantilevers over his legs. 

It’s not so much that the thread is loose… it’s the weighing potential for it to completely unravel. And it’s not only that it could unravel, but that it could do so at an uncontrollable moment, poking a hole in your somewhat crafted self-assurance. Leaving it flailing.

Rocks underground push to negotiate their place.

A burst of energy, 

a warning?