
Trails of Blood on Paper
Old postcards written by people who are dead. In pencil. In pen. Something remains. Something intimate. A snail trail. A Continue reading
Old postcards written by people who are dead. In pencil. In pen. Something remains. Something intimate. A snail trail. A Continue reading
When I went back twenty-five years later there were walls and barbed wire and gates where none had been before. Continue reading
You look at a word long enough and it shows you some of the other things it can do. Like Continue reading
Waking up this morning on the tenth floor of a building in Holborn to sky and rooftops, the tip of Continue reading
Go somewhere new every day. That’s what the Dali Lama says. Or is it every week, every month, once a Continue reading
I met A there, and H, and L, and I met N and V and a guy called Jean-Luc. Most Continue reading
A map says up to here and no further. A map says this is all I’ve got to say. A Continue reading
Understand that you are alone. That in order to write you must be alone, no matter how dark and murky Continue reading