Last night, when I opened the door of our white-tiled bathroom, the light was on and the room full of moths; they coated the walls, the white porcelain, the soap. There's a broken pane where they've come in. Beautiful but a bit unnerving. I switched off the light and backed out without cleaning my teeth. This morning there were still a few who’d refused to go home – hiding determinedly in the lavatory bowl
A neighbour's child came to visit, I took her to the lake to meet the fish. Bribed with bread, little roach come in big shoals and swim around our fingers. A gloomy perch lurks near the feeding frenzy. The child was so absorbed by the event that, squatting in the shallow edges of the lake, she’d ended up sitting on her teddy bear which became soaked and muddy, unconcerned she held him close and sucked at him all the way home.
Writings from the Edge of Language. - From the Guardian, Philip Gross’s top 10 writings from the edge of language (2010) is a mixture of things I already know and love (“The Waste Land”), thing...
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