All I can see is a happy green and a sullen grey. And how we spend our journey in little coloured boxes. Big or small, comfortable or not, but boxes. All because of this fear of being left behind. We don't know where we're going, but we want to be there on time.
“Two a.m. poetry for a woman I’ve never met: 🐺The Hunt🐺 He wanders, breathless, through all that remains of love like an animal wounded by the hunt. A predator takes his turn, finally, as prey. What he can’t quite grasp is how quickly the forest vanishes in sand, and all the robins, once easily seduced, now gather just to see the way a wolf falls when he underestimates a huntress in red.”🐺HW