"Imagine a city where graffiti wasn't illegal, a city where everybody drew whatever they liked. Where every street was awash with a million colours and little phrases. Where standing at a bus stop was never boring. A city that felt like a party where everyone was invited, not just the estate agents and barons of big business. Imagine a city like that and stop leaning against the wall - it's wet. “ - Banksy


it was bloody cold.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

I am beginning to write again


'Person of the forest'

His arms were draped across his head and round his body, long and awkward. Wet copper fur plastered his skin and covered his eyes. Skinny fingers clutched at the nape of his neck. His toes were curled and his posture hunched as he squatted on the flooded mud floor. Massive buttress roots towered above the small animal. He was burnt orange, a little light amongst the trees. He squashed his chin between his knees and squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn’t cold, but muggy and confusing. He needed protection from the thick heavy rainfall of the forest. He was alone.

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