The Water's Edge. In a parallel universe, it's me you can't resist.

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Main Course:

• Freshly baked sour dough rolls
• Corn fed chicken breast, chevre, pancetta and garlic pangritata, crisp rosemary polenta, forrest mushroom & thyme ragu
• Vegetarian option: blue cheese & caramelised red onion tart, baby beetroot, honey roasted pumpkin red wine vinaigrette.

Dessert:

• Classic creme brulee. Coffee, tea & petit fours

He turned the embossed card over in his hand, ran his fingers along the engraved lettering. Very formal, very fancy; the thought of the food had him near-salivating.

He sniffed, and set the card back down, amidst the dog-eared issues of Time magazine and half-read books that littered his coffee table, sinking back onto the couch. He cast a glance to the diploma hanging on the wall, the open laptop that sat beside him, and he sighed.

Closing his eyes, he leant back.

The Museum of Contemporary Art; a fancy luncheon, a jacket and tie. Is that what he’d started for? Is that what his fingers danced across keyboards for? He’d have taken a stand, not long ago, and said that that was not the case; that he was his own man, that he wrote for respect, not for recognition.

Opening his eyes, he picked up the invitation again, and scanned the list of honourees; he found his own name, and ran a finger across the letters.

It pained him, but it was the truth. Seeing his name there made everything much, much better.

owlsaid:

Rain fall on a tin roof, inside I sit and scribble a haiku on the napkin that came inside of our takeaway Thai food.

It goes, our time is always, our season is all year ‘round. This is our secret for as long as we can keep it. The deepest of secrets that nobody knows. The root of the root, the bud of the bud and so it goes.

And the lyrics of a thousand songs couldn’t paint a picture so beautiful. She had me from my first conversation with her. See nobody was ever as clever, and I still can’t figure how they put it together.

Sitting in the room where we first got lost in one another, just tripping of the feeling of together we discovered.

You play with fire and you get burnt, for all the things that I have learnt. I would love to walk you home. If not the one, then you’re the first, for all the things that I have learnt.

And I would love to be the one to walk you home.

What’s doing?

Early money is like yeast.

“That girl’s group with the funny name?”

(via lucygrey)

<3<3<3<3

at all of the lives that I never have led.

My fingers scramble to find purchase on the rocks, and my feet slip in the dust; pebbles and gravel clatter off the rockface, cascade down the cliff into the sea. Lost in the waves.

I try just to breathe, to forget that I’m here; looking for purchase, and finding none.

I focus, and it becomes second nature. I climb and haul myself up, and my hands find handholds and my feet find rock, just long enough for me to reach to the top; I scrabble over the edge, dislodging more pebbles and dust. Below the ocean churns and boils, crashing into the cliff and the boulders beneath it.

Above me stretches steel grey sky, beneath me is the faded orange of the rock and the angry green of the water, threaded through with foam and flecked with kelp.

I shiver in the wind, feel my hair whip around me, draw my hoody tighter; I still don’t roll the sleeves down. Never ask me to do that.

I hear a squawk, and see sea birds take off into the afternoon grey; wheel and twist and dive and the oceanspray tickles my eyes. I blink and I lose them.

I take in the great expanse of the sea, the ships out at the horizon; red bulwarks of humanity against the salt eternity that becomes a horizon. I count them, and then I lose count, so I count them again; I follow their arc along the coast, and then I find the beach. All but abandoned today, it’s cold, the sea too restless; but even here, I can see the red and yellow flags.

Down there, I can see the banks becomes hotels, the hotels become restaraunts, become a park and a gazebo and then become the boardwalk; this is the city, that is the sea. This is where they meet.

Here on this clifftop, buffetted by the wind, saturated and shivering, I can see so much beauty.

Industrial decay in the distance; urban renewal not too far away. The old terrace houses, crumbling relics of olden days long past, are being given new life and new signs that read new numbers that would have been incomprehensible to their builders.

It’s the way things are, I don’t regret them.

I regret the ocean, though, everything it’s claimed; my freedom, mainly. I do remember, I do, life before I saw it. Before it yawned beneath me, beneath my fingers clasped around the pitted and scarred wood of the safety railings. I remember breathing before its scent became all I wanted to smell.

I hear a squawk again, see the birds high above, riding on the winds that are setting my teeth chattering.

I want to sleep now; to sleep, perchance to dream.

In dreams, I can join them; in dreams, I can swim the length of the coast, up and down those great ships. I can ride one as it comes to a rest on the headlands. In dreams, I can take my shirt off and swim.

I love this; I don’t ever want it to stop.