When the body is dust, the stone you kicked walking the woods after rain ruminating about work won’t lie off the path because it met your shoe. No reasons, no memory. Nothing remembers like we do.
Breath hisses like a burning log. The cracked black wood burns red, smouldering in a deep iron heart. Too much air, it flares and flickers out. Too little, it starves and we get cold ash. But when the grate is open well enough it breathes hot and constant. Sometimes a blister, a spark, a crack. […]
Full use was made of the firelighters. Not so much the rest of it. Matthieu Ricard’s book would have given me much happiness in the form of blessed heat but it didn’t come to that. The burner was one of those US Boxwood stoves. They look quite iconic and can fit a lot of wood inside. […]
Deceased: Love is not made here. There is no air, nor bread, nor beer. It is doubly dark, which is to say that it has no colour. It is doubly deep, having no need of a beginning. It is doubly quiet, because I can hear myself. You have brought me to a place that does […]
Matt found the following footage in Uffmoor Woods. What can it mean?