“Buenos dias.”
I drifted in and out of sleep with her tossing and turning next to me in the early hours of the morning. I dreamt of her taking…
It’s grey and drizzling and calm and thunder rumbles low in the distance and I love you just as I did when the winds were up and sun was shining and snow fell on Gorbals, and I love you just as I always will.
This morning the crisp air is disturbed by the kiskadee song, a neighbour taking out the trash, a rooster crowing, a weed wacker off in the distance. Inside my father stirs and mutters to himself about this or that as he gets ready for work. This morning I am sober and…
I want to delete my account and only follow you;
I want you to be my algorithm.
Sincerely,
up late, tired of scrolling
To write about nothing is impossible.
The land the sea the sun the sky.
Life and death and birth and destruction.
In August, the purple heathers grow wide and wild and free in the southern Scottish uplands. The Clyde, in its infancy, snakes swiftly by, in a hurry to grow up and flow down to the lowlands, where it will slow, and eventually the sea.
