The hedge is a dark mass on the horizon, heavy with scarlet roses.

On or about April 1978, the division between popular art and critically acclaimed art solidified.

Galaxies watch as I float and blink and float unblinking.

Disposing of the idea that protagonists must be virtuous and good is far easier and simpler than contemplating what they should be instead.

There is no need to wait in the weeping wind.

It is not enough merely for the universe to be: it must also be shared.

now, the moon washes her skin in stars

The obsessions of the father seep into the son.

Caught in the malaise of a disenchanted world, true magic should matter more than ever to us.

It was after his death the stories started getting told.

Vita lay on a cold slab of stone, feeling disappointed with death.

Stories pursue truth.

how our village is not small / but vast, how we are made of light

The eagle never fails to come.

All fiction is to a certain extent metaphorical.

The fact that this AI discourse is so widespread testifies to an increasing inability to define the act of artistic creation.

I’m on this beach, and I think I might be dead.

When you go down to the sea you’ll understand

what it is to burn and drown

Sun is an evanescent being, hiding / behind distance, making themself small

“Who are you today?” I asked her when I woke, finding eyes of vibrant blue looking into mine.