My Thistled Thoughts

Poetry // Prose // Personal Passages

“What a phantasmagoria the mind is and meeting-place of dissemblables! At one moment we deplore our birth and state and aspire to an ascetic exaltation; the next we are overcome by the smell of some old garden path and weep to hear the thrushes sing.”

— Virginia Woolf, Orlando: A Biography

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Visions Again

Lie awake, craving the taste of lakewater and the scent of September rhubarb.


A speck in your space.

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