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A faint rebellion 

By Eve Messervy


On the third day God

grew a sacred ember’s seed, now

planted between my lips;

Incense as it sits, to a temple, 

Dilapidated, and burnt.


With a single lingered drag 

It flares against the shadowed arch

before me, 

God’s great glory,

At the organ – a solemn figure bends,

his hands coax life from silent pipes,

a trembling sound that floods my being.


The stained glass windows burn so saintly

reds and blues, that sear my eyes,

The martyrs blood that pours with pride,

I revert to the ground

And taste my sin honed –

a faint rebellion within the sacred.


I walk onwards

And there, my dear friend knelt,

his head curved low in silent prayer,

a figure of aching devotion before me;

my heart aches in its cage.


He lit a candle that burns with God,

I can only wish that for myself one day –

we walk away,

As I couldn’t stay 

leaving smoke and prayers

to linger.

Categories
Poetry Uncategorized

Resurrection

By Muna Mir

In January I dreamt you’d been resurrected.

Walking through the woods,

I watched the colours shift

For the first time

When the sun hit your eyes.

The clenching of my stomach, the serpent

Wrapped twice around my chest,

Tempting and stifling. The memory

Of restraint

When the sun rubbed

At your temples. Smooth skin

And your golden hair

Falling over

That temple.

I’d only noticed

The colour of your eyes

The week before.

How often I have regretted

Not noticing sooner, not

Nailing you to a cross

To stare at your eyes forever

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Perspective Uncategorized

Beatnik Meditations – Beatniks: From the Cornea to the Cock

By Matty Timmis

I’ve been obsessed with the idea of a ‘beatnik’, whatever that means, for quite a long time now. It started when I was fourteen; slinking through the sprayed and spattered side streets of a less than gentrified slice of Bristol, I stumbled upon a slightly ramshackle second hand bookshop. Already feeling emboldened by my adventure to a less than reputable part of town, and very much in the throes of the grease, grumpiness and cliched angst implicit in that stage of a middle class teenager’s life, I ventured valiantly forth. Creeping round the crumbling shelves, skimming the dog eared and moth eaten spines of reams of volumes of obsolete and puerile knowledge, I was about to capitulate to my budding reality of internet, xbox and wanking, so drab and musty was the poky shop. 

But just as the vibrato of my yawn threatened to become too much to stifle, I saw it. Jack Kerouac’s On The Road. True to its nature it was lying down, sprawled out amongst an orgy of terse and commanding leather bound editions, boxed together, standing to their intellectual attention. The cover was black on the top half, and beneath was a stripe of mauve or violet, a deep hue on a shot taken seemingly from the underside of a car, mountains beckoning in the distance, the very white lines of the road bleary, leering dangerously close to the camera. My interests were piqued immediately, even the name ‘Kerouac’ had a charmingly melancholic timbre in the roof of my mouth (as a side note if I were ever to have a kid I think their name, or at least their middle name, would have to be Kerouac).

On the back a review: “the bible of the beat generation”. I needed no further enticement. The very idea of a bible for a generation, whatever that generation, “the beat generation”, entailed, was incredibly seductive in its certitude, its belief in its wholly comprehensive nature. Then I think I was beginning to feel the prickles of awareness that quiver through one’s mind when they become aware of the vast and transient community of the generation they pass through life with. Even the name of that generation sounded cool, ‘beat’, without any preconceived notions yet already connoting a down and out nature complimented by the snappy and upbeat cadence of the central vowels, inflecting it with a strange optimism.

I can’t remember if I bought it or nicked it, more likely than not I did buy it; I wasn’t as cool then as I now like to imagine. I set to work on it immediately, unusually sincerely, in the nearby park.

For the benefit of all those who, shamefully, are not familiar with the text, it centres round two friends criss crossing 50s America with minds relentlessly open; drinking, taking drugs, sleeping with women, and listening to jazz, transcribed in an endlessly fascinating “first thought best thought” prose, a style Truman Capote snidely described as “not writing but typing”. This was heady stuff for a sheltered young teenager, the kind of thing that really makes you dream, really makes you compare your prosaic life with the unrestrained energy leaping from the page. Pretty much immediately I set about trying to transform my pampered middle England life into the life of a bohemian, a free spirit, a beatnik.

Without cars, drugs, alcohol, girls, or the vast expanses of 1950s America however, it seemed slightly difficult to pinpoint precisely what it meant to be a beatnik. I felt pretty far away, in my suburban semi detached home, from the wild adventurers reeling through my mind. What does it mean to be a beatnik has quietly niggled at me since. 

Webster’s dictionary defines Beatnik as thus:

“Beatnik (noun): : a person who participated in a social movement of the 1950s and early 1960s which stressed artistic self-expression and the rejection of the mores of conventional society’

Broadly: ‘a usually young and artistic person who rejects the mores of conventional society”

Well, the more technical definition is a bit lost on me, not least because, through my own misfortune, I don’t exist in either the 1950s or 1960s. Whilst I am certainly now older than I was when this question first occupied my mind, I would still describe myself as ‘young’, I would even say, at a slightly indulgent stretch, that I am artistic. Do I reject the ‘mores of conventional society’? Well readers I can disclose that I have not only tattoos and an earring, but a nose ring too, making me a veritable bastion of the counterculture.

Frankly though, I’m uncomfortable with the constraints of this definition. If nothing else, I don’t believe for a second that the nerds and virgins who write the entries in those things have the faintest idea of how to define something so culturally distinct from themselves. Beatnik by the dictionary is almost an anathema – it cannot be carved out from the parameters of such a rigorous and inflexible book, it is too wrapped up in desire and freedom, curiosity and hope – faith in the strange journeys we can stumble into.

So after a summer of fairly gentile bumming around western Europe I flew to Munich to meet two of my closest university friends. As is ever the case with a ludicrously skimpy travel budget, my journey there in itself was absurd, involving a creaking old absinthe bar, two dutch girls and a very uncomfortable park bench. That, however, is besides the point. I was still a civilian then, before my supposed ascension to the hallowed grounds of the true beatnik.

This then is the story of the closest I ever got to my teenage dream, where for a second I thought I really might be a beatnik.

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Uncategorized

A psalm for the moment:

By Lyra Button


a palette knife twisting together 

grey and white paint

lathering clouds onto the night. 

Embellishing all the skys mysteries 

with faint angels and fluffy cotton owls.


 the rain gossips on paving stones

and wuthering winds whisper to willows

 in a language I’ll never know. 


Theres a barn

broken in bales of hay,

and a fire in the corner 

fluttering like a red winter robin.


Theres two sheep. 

a dapple grey horse

 and three cows. 


Their heads 

all leaning on eachothers bodies

 so quiet 

that I can’t picture it as

 anything

 but prayer. 


What I mean is that a thousand philosophers

 couldn’t teach me anything about God,

that I could not learn by giving 

my old Nan a pair of hand knit socks. 

Noticing her smile, all slight and celestial. 

and feeling the tiny move of a hand onto an arm.


We make so much of the miracle 

that we lose hold of the moment, 

and miss its dog eared corners

 of ordinary magic.


You can spend years deciphering

 the mechanisms of the sky,

but all that means nothing when weighed against 

that simple moment beneath stars,

as fingers lace together.


The world does not ask you to understand her.

just that,

while you have breath, you use it for kindness,

while you have fingers, you use them for such things

as making soup.

And so long as you live, you live in wonder.


A miracle is just a moment worshipped properly

Call it love.                Call it God. 


Whatever name it holds 

   I hold it,

      sacred.


So I sit

 with my family.

hands round a cup of coffee

 that holds the whole worlds happiness.


hand out Christmas cards and presents,

point out the brushmarks in the clouds.

Watch my Dads smile and hold it tender.


 I take my cup,

dip a biscuit

in the warmth of ordinary dreaming

and drink.


I feel my love and call it 

  prayer. 


Whatever name it holds

   I hold it, 

        sacred.

Categories
Creative Writing Uncategorized

Pity the Girl in the White Skirt 

By Samara Patel

He’s leading her on. Playful touches on her arm when she says something silly, hand on her back leading her through a crowd. Pinning her down with those golden-brown eyes of his, saying that her hair looks pretty, or touching the hem of one of those athletic short white skirts she always wears, just to say he loves the material. And he can’t possibly ignore the way she blushes from her cheeks across the tip of her nose whenever he turns his attention to her.

Leto and Zuri clearly got along well from the start. At any restaurant, college bar, or kitchen table, they would find themselves sitting next to each other. Zuri always sits down first, her gaze darting over to Lucas every so often, until he pulls up a chair next to her. That small gesture always makes her smile, but she tries to hide it behind her hand every time.

We all like Zuri, ever since Emile brought her into our little uni friend group a few weeks after their classes started. Zuri’s very sweet and quite naive at times, shy in dress and manner, subtle and quiet and graceful in all things. She usually dresses in white, oversized dresses and jumpers, her black butterfly braids falling around her face. In contrast, Leto is an English student who, as all his friends know, has not read a single book on his course list. Frustratingly, he manages to coast by with good grades when all the rest of us are stressing through formatives. His blonde hair is wavy around his face, the back of it nearly brushing those collared shirts he always wears. He has a gorgeous girlfriend back home in Leeds, who he even very briefly introduced us to. I don’t even know her name.

We’ve all talked about them. I mean, okay, I know it’s bad to talk about people behind their backs, but his flirtation was far too obvious and almost cruel to the poor girl. Like the other day when we were walking back from the library after a long study session, and I was chatting with Emile and her boyfriend Ben. Leto and Zuri were walking ahead of us, a bit apart from the group. I’ve talked to her a few times, of course, idle chit chat, but we don’t really have much in common. She seems to exist in an odd limbo where she gets nervous around Lucas like you’d get nervous around someone you have a crush on yet knows him better than the rest of us due to being around him almost constantly, so is most comfortable near him. It puts her in the odd position of always being slightly on edge.

On this day, we were all walking back from the library after a long study session. Emile points ahead at Lucas and Zuri, and we hash out the usual theories and predictions of when/if they’ll get together. As we’re theorizing, Zuri drops the books she’s holding, her accounting papers spilling all over the pavement. The wind picks up, blowing around her equations with no care for the author. And she’s trying to catch the papers, gracefully dashing around to pick them off the pavement and blushing furiously while accepting some from strangers that have scooped them up from the air. While all this is happening Lucas hangs back, not even trying to hide his laughter, nor trying to help. Once her papers are collected again, she pins him with an accusatory look that only reignites her blush when he returns it, and smiles at her. He gets a bit closer, brushing a braid off her face and behind her ear. Leans into her and whispers something next to her pearl earring, one hand on her hip to steady her against the wind, as if she’d topple over if he wasn’t there to hold her up.

At this point, Emile, Ben, and I have paused in our walk to watch this drama play out. Zuri goes stock-still, white skirt whipping around her knees and cardigan blowing in the breeze. The books in her hand, the howling wind, even we are ignored as this boy starts to talk in her ear. The passerby chatting and leaves swirling in the air, winter chill and study-induced exhaustion are all long forgotten. And we can’t help but feel awful for her, this innocent girl who got swept up in Leto’s pretty eyes and gentle words. Because in his left hand is his phone, so conveniently facing us, and we can barely make out the image of his girlfriend’s face on the call screen. The phone vibrates for one, two seconds before he pulls back. This boy pulls away from Zuri, gives her the ‘give me a sec’ hand gesture, and walks away, putting the phone to his ear with a cheery, “Hey, babe!”

And Emile and I, we just look at her. Now standing alone in the middle of the pavement, staring after him with the most heartbreaking look on her face – eyes wide and bright, lashes fluttering in shock. Her blush is worse than ever, but instead of dancing across her cheeks and nose, seems to flush down to her neck and the tips of her ears. Her mouth is slightly open in the manner of someone who has been ripped out of a wonderful dream, glossed pink lips parted. She shakes herself, just once, and puts her poker face back on again. She turns away from him and walks back to us.

“Did you end up figuring out those chemistry problems?” Her voice was perfectly even, not a trace of sadness or anger. The blush receded, and she blinked a few times until the tears were gone from her eyes. She didn’t acknowledge that we were there to witness the whole thing, didn’t call us out or pick a fight. Just started some mundane conversation like she wanted to forget that anything ever happened.

He’s leading her on. He clearly cares a lot for his girlfriend, though Zuri always does her best to look unaffected when he mentions her. Part of me wants to plan a girl’s night out for her, bring her sweets and chocolate and alcohol until she forgets about the whole complicated, depressing situation.

But the other part of me, the mean and gossipy part, wants to sit back and watch. See if she bothers to hide her teary eyes from the room when the girlfriend next calls or goes against her nature and tries to flirt with him, though that’s unlikely. That sadistic side of me wants to see if she’ll ever give up, although something tells me that she gave up on a future with him a long time ago and is coasting off a sort of hopeless adrenaline.

She knows she’ll never get the boy, but that doesn’t mean she will ever stop hoping. Because a girl like her, sad as it is, will never stop chasing what she can’t have.

Categories
Reviews Uncategorized

The Many Materials of The Substance

Image © Movie Insider

By Edward Bayliss

Someone at some point said something about good artists borrowing and great artists stealing. The provenance of this quotation is unclear, the meaning perhaps even more so. All art must have some kind of singularity as well as a worldliness, that is, both originality and inspiration. I’m interested in how art, or in this case the new cinema release The Substance, approaches its inspirations and predecessors. The question I suppose, is whether this film steals – makes its own, and bends these images and threads of plot to its will? Otherwise, does it only borrow, pedestal and ultimately return untouched and unexplored its horror inheritance? I’m afraid to say that Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance reads more like maniacal fan mail than a love letter to its genre’s history.    

The issue is that the film loses almost all shreds of singularity to a screenplay swamped with incoherent horror recollections dropped with exhausting frequency. Like the Hitchcock cameos in his early films, we find ourselves constantly on the lookout for his next appearance, or in this case, for the next Kubrick corridor, or bathroom for that matter. We’re full on easter eggs, thank you very much director Coralie Fargeat. Here we have homage for the sole sake of homage, a mere gesture of tokenistic exchange. What I want to see is theft; for Fargeat to take these images and make them her own, to possess them. 

I made a mental list of all the films that The Substance referenced while watching it in the cinema. I didn’t want to, but these allusions were too often so painfully blatant that I couldn’t help myself. As the run-time wears on, the film becomes less like a window, and more like a mirror. It reflected scenes, sounds and ideas from: Black Swan, Carrie, Requiem for a Dream, American Psycho, The Shining, 2OO1: A Space Odyssey, The Fly, Men, The Great Gatsby, Vertigo, The Elephant Man, and Brazil. Plotwise, it riffs heavily on Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. Much of these representations exist very strikingly in their isolated forms. The extreme close up shots of dilated eyes and gunk filled syringes of Requiem for a Dream; the gross body horrors of The Fly, The Elephant Man and Men; the dystopian and sickly unrealism of Brazil; the bloody theatricality of Carrie and American Psycho; the restless score of Vertigo.  All of these are brilliant constructions of cinema, but they rub awkwardly against each other in The Substance. There’s no cohesion to this collective as they each, it seems, vie for their spot in the limelight. It feels as though we are thumbing our way through a tired catalogue, whose pages we’ve read before and will read again. It’s bad borrowing.       

It should be said, Carolie Fargeat’s film is very good looking. She opts to shoot in 2.39:1 aspect ratio, or ‘anamorphic widescreen format’ for the terminologists amongst us. This is pretty much the widest modern cinema format available, used traditionally to capture broad landscapes in period dramas or sprawling universes in sci-fi films. Here though, we have an insanely wide frame used in compact corporate interiors, affording an uncomfortably full and stuffy feel to the shot. It’s just a shame that the director feels the need to fill the frame with objects and ideas that aren’t hers – a fact of dispossession we notice too often. Unlike The Cabin in the Woods, which fondly and friskily recollects its horror inheritance, or The Witch, whose woodland setting riffs convincingly on recent and ancient folkloric tropes, The Substance’s references are woefully soulless. Fargeat seems to think that any given image from a film will translate seamlessly into hers, and this misunderstanding is what characterises the bad borrowing of the director. 

There are some shards of hope. The crosshairs of this piece have landed only on the referential aspect of Fargeat’s film. There are many qualities to this film; though whether they are redeeming I’m not sure. This will seem a footnote to the article, but I’ll say that the superb performances of Margaret Qualley, and, especially, Demi Moore didn’t go unnoticed. I also respect the fact that Fargeat remained unafraid to attack the potent and pressing issue of body image with a biting relevance. It’s just a shame that our attention is dragged towards half-baked horror allusions and not the features I mention latterly.         

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Uncategorized

Reworking Keats’ Ode on Melancholy

By Madeline Harding


Glut your sorrow.


Look on my face with those doleful eyes

Only I have seen.


This is the ultimate intimacy;

It seems as though your sadness was made for solely me.


Indulge your melancholia.


Embrace me tight.

I will wrap my arms around you to show you it’s alright.


Not only I but the sky cries with you

As she makes her mournful music when pattering on the ground.


Do not suffocate that noise,

or suppress your woeful cries;


For with it you will kill your senses

And they’re what make you alive.

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Uncategorized

Arboretum Autumn

By Rohan Scott 


More gift of the watery sky, no Indian summer in sight

Rain and fog, grain sodden to bog.

I tread the mudded trail cutting the planted rows.

Rhododendron, Hydrangea, purple Verbena

Nomenclature serves no barrier in the floral wonder

Hues of periwinkle and mauve dusted with water drop


A clearing announces my arrival at the steps of the wood

I am greeted by a solitary maple

Who directs me to seek shelter under the arboreal cluster

Thank you and farewell, leaving it alone, again.


The beechen canopy wipes the rain off my shoulders

As I wander into the dark and dank

Interspersed are fir and pine following no forested rank

The needle littered floor presses a waft of wet loam

My eyes spin above my person

Enamoured by these silent sentinels


My feet wander through this towering grove

I am drawn along the trail to the feet of a champion

The great Wellingtonia peers down at me

Standing over a hundred feet

To ease the crane and strain, its lowest limb gestures a seat


I scan its blood shale bark, its samphire leaves

I’m speechless.

No, I have so much to say – but you can’t hear me?

A wind carried whisper corrects me,

It listens closely to my thoughts,

Bestowing momentary solace –

To be alone, In company,

With a newfound friend.

Categories
Culture Uncategorized

Can the ideas of Dogme 95 be applied to art curation?

By Matthew Squire

This article presents the argument that the Dogme 95 cinema movement can be effectively repurposed to assist in the curation of exhibitions. 

(The ideas of Debord apply)

1. Shooting must be done on location. Props and sets must not be brought in (if a particular prop is necessary for the story, a location must be chosen where this prop is to be found).

An exhibition must occur in its most simplistic form, with no information or outside influence on the art exhibited — the art itself must be the information. If an audience cannot extract meaning, then the meaning is not for them. 

2. The sound must never be produced apart from the images or vice versa. (Music must not be used unless it occurs where the scene is being shot.) 

If music is to be used, it must be produced live. To use reproduced music is to allow for consumerism (however little) to infiltrate the exhibition space, which must be free of such. Diegetic sound also allows for a greater meaning to be taken by the audience. 

3. The camera must be hand-held. Any movement or immobility attainable in the hand is permitted. 

Art has moved past the point of painting. To paint means to be immobile in a mobile age, and to do this means to be removed from action. Art must be kinetic, and engendering a thereby kinetic relationship with an audience allows for more meaning in art.

4. The film must be in colour. Special lighting is not acceptable. (If there is too little light for exposure the scene must be cut or a single lamp be attached to the camera.) 

Again we must view painting as an outdated form of expression: in an age when artificial intelligence has overtaken the strength of Degas, we must question the power of even the post-impressionists in creating emotion for an audience. On this point, we must also discuss the role of traditional galleries in this proposed movement. 

Art occurs for the enjoyment (or irritation) of the general public – a medium through which they can gain Instagram likes, or gain views on TikTok. The gallery model facilitates this through shameless promotion and capitalist intent. As previously stated, capitalism must be removed from art for true meaning to be created. For example, the Tate Modern is supported by billionaire art collectors who disguise themselves as patrons: its collections are committed to being exhibited at the will of a greed-driven individual. This is not without a resultant damage to the art’s meaning. 

5. Optical work and filters are forbidden.

Whilst art can be seen as an escape from the grim reality of life, it must (as this manifesto posits) stay authentic and political to retain meaning in today’s world. Because of this, art must remain as true to real life as possible. Examples like Joseph Beuys’ Blackboards or protest art can be seen as effective pieces that need no augmentation. 

6. The film must not contain superficial action. (Murders, weapons, etc. must not occur.) 

Of all the rules in the Dogme manifesto, this is the only one which can be disagreed with, as art of the modern day can take forms not seen before, and in a weaponised society, weaponised art can (and in some cases must) take place. The Situationist International and its effect on the May ‘68 protests through the form of violent art disprove the argument that art must be void of superficial action. If an artist wishes to sacrifice themselves for art, this must be allowed to happen. 

7. Temporal and geographical alienation are forbidden. (That is to say that the film takes place here and now.) 

Art is current, art is now.

8. Genre movies are not acceptable. 

We are at a point at which art has become generalised, and therefore genre must be transcended by art. We have reached a point similar to that of the French New Wave, and it may be perceived that ‘a certain tendency’ of art is being perpetuated once more: a familiar roundabout of mainstream art being produced. In short, it is time for change. The world is generalised, art cannot be too. 

9. The director must not be credited. 

Consumerism creates celebrity, and celebrity destroys art in its elevation of an individual above their work. The work is paramount as it is the work that carries meaning; the artist is merely a vessel of ideas, and therefore needs no accreditation. 

In an exhibition, the viewer must be given the art without distraction: celebrity is a distraction from real life, and a distraction from real life allows for real life to be destroyed by others. 

ART > ARTIST 

ASIDE: STAR CURATORS

As is the case with celebrity artists, curators must also fall by the wayside when it comes to the importance of art in a modern society. 

Whilst it could be argued that some artists exist as art themselves (Gilbert and George etc.), celebrity still undermines art, and to exist as a celebrity is a false existence. 

EDIT: 

An overarching rule that must apply to all exhibiting of art is that it must be in a constant state of flux, as the past does not exist anymore. Art must now exist in the present and in the future. 

Static art does not matter. 

Static art is past and not future. By this, we mean that the time in which static art had meaning is in the past. 

In a constantly active society (for better or worse) art must be alive. 

In a world in which we are condemned to a single model of humanity, we must establish a way of creating separate forms.

Museums are antiquity, galleries are unrelieved, and there must be a change in the established method. 

All art must be alive, all art must be in Fluxus, all art must reflect humanity. 

The time for oils and paints has passed, the time for action has arrived. 

 

Image Credit: Caroline Tisdall, Joseph Beuys Coyote 2011, Large Glass.

 
Categories
Poetry Uncategorized

Ode to the End of the World 

Ode to the End of the World 

The road is long, 

it arches softly like the back 

of a cat on a hot day 

basking in the sun 


and I think we’re lost. 

The sun is setting 

or maybe it’s the middle of the 

day, but the birds — 


they are awfully quiet. 

I think the trees are 

drowning and the dust 

is hurting my eyes 


but you can hold my hand 

(please hold my hand) 

Time is a slipping like so 

much sand through my fingers 


my legs are tired our legs 

are tired. Come, we should sit down but 

I love you and I love you 

and that is all there is



The Wind 

The leaves are dancing; a waltz 

with the Wind in late afternoon. 

For a beat they are gentle, then 

the Wind missed a step — 


she is clumsy, experience can only 

teach so much. The leaves don’t seem

 to mind, they press on to the sound 

of the bell. It tolls in the distance, 


and the Wind finds her footing, 

if only to tell the leaves of Her stories 

— of children playing and lovers 

dancing, of the hymns they sing to find 

their God 


but they do not know (and for this, 

the Wind laughs) that their God is all around them; 

hiding in the whisper of the Wind 

for this is her very own hymn — 


in the dance of the leaves, 

and the beat of the waves as they find 

the shore, again and again and again.

Quiet now, the Wind slows her waltz 


and whispers something for 

only the leaves to make out.

It can be only love, truth be told. 

This is all she knows to do. 



Ode to a Home I Do Not Have 

Four walls, a table and two chairs the

 doors make do with the hinges — 

they laugh, but it sounds, 

to the untrained ear, like a creek. 

A fire burns somewhere off-stage, 


they can’t quite tell if it’s the 

mantle or the heart of the girl

upstairs. 

Regardless, it is warm and 

the walls are painted ivory; the 

curtains hang in green. A bookshelf 


stands tall in the corner, not dusted – but

not unclean. One shelf boasts stamps and 

pens and envelopes; 

the books are read to be shared.

A cat is stretched out on the floor 


by the window — her black fur 

kissed brown by the sun. 

She would swallow the sun if 

she could — I would give it 

to her on a plate. 


The present and the past meet 

in the middle, here. Nothing lasts

forever, but for now feels long enough.

Stay here for now, please. 

Come — the kettle is on.


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