white walls and walks
light largely yellow
lounging from lamps
a cat leaps for the scrawl
reaches, falls
looks into a corner
looks casual
begins grooming
so suavely supple
bolder than light
and supple
AuthorI'm a twenty-something student of English literature and philosophy. When not occupied with one too many essays, I (try to) write fiction and poetry. I adore Virginia Woolf, am permanently inhabited by T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, and feast on the works of Donne and Milton. I am, however, most entranced by the works of the great Romantic poets: Blake, Shelley, Coleridge, Keats. Immersed in such an illustrious tradition, I wonder each time I write how words I string together could say anything that has not been said better before. Still the inexorable drive to partake in this vast universe of word sends me scrawling, typing, tossing fragile scribbles into a plenitudinous void. And when not reading or writing, I may be found playing piano or taking a long walk. A final word: Beethoven renders all words void. Archives
March 2016
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