Unpicking past realities, a delicate task, stories that took years to build collapse in a single breath. Details carelessly disassembled resonate with hints of betrayal.
I have a collection of sea bricks, battered and rolled by the sea. Perfect bricks transformed beneath, square pegs that knew their places, rounded and cajoled into fabricated holes.
The bleak slate cloud is pierced by the morning sun, illuminating and pinning us in Claire’s happy kitchen. Swirling motes of dust cocoon us in the warmth,