I’ve just walked up the hill from Prospect station and that wind is a vicious bitch from the part of hell that’s just a cold emptiness. It’s carrying a cheerless snow that gathers in shallow pockets which suddenly wisp away, or at you— spineless little hell ghosts slithering the sidewalk on ice-dry bellies. I think… Continue reading fearsome gusts and corrective lenses
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 