All things Language, all things Culture
I sit up a little straight every time your footsteps approach. Pit pat pit pat they come, and then fade away.Always the same. Saunter. That's the word. The smell the sound the touch. The touch of a saunter is creepy. Yet I always forget that when you touch me. Touched me.I have listened for that… Continue reading The Unchosen
Digging is hard work, especially if you're digging alone. The drop of sweat that, Originating from the hairline has trickled down the inevitability of your brow and now trembles upon the lash, Let it cloud your eye. No one is there to look at through the haze No hands disturbing the air, no feet pushing… Continue reading At the End of the Heart, There is Steel
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