Mediocrity is mercenary, like fog. The exhaust sputters and lurches. A snail leaves a trail of silver on a gravestone.
One hymn. One reason. To float, to shine, to fly. Buzzing in endlessly. This whisper. This silence.
I push open the window and the air rushes in. My skin is cold and fragile.
Something solid is needed.
The ordinariness is comforting. Churches and spirits are empty.
These kids, these books, this icy forest.
Just to be here on this train, discussing Hitchcock.
Analysing the opening scene of Midsomer Murders. Brewing coffee.
Hands, voices, conversations.
I don’t want to spend my life sitting in a circle.
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