Sloe, Love, Sloe

The colour of passion. The taste of winter. The satisfaction of a job well done.

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Unreal Projections

It is an utter deluge, and I am standing on the end of a pier in a tempestuous sea, bathed in strings of multicoloured light that catch raindrops in slow-motion and transform them into white-noise static.

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Hastening On

This morning, like every morning, I shut the door behind me and walked through the morning-lit park into town. Except this morning, the birds that graced the frost-laden lawn were gulls and mallards, not the chattering jays of Riegrovy.

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