Oh hello I’m back, sitting in bed, looking out of my window at a sky bordered by grey house roofs, grey-with-dust window ledges, and full, itself, of soft grey clouds, the greys enclosing greys, reminding me less of what grey tends to (boredom, depression) but instead of smoke, of ash, of Cordelia, who I met in France, on my perfume course, who is building a range of perfumes around turpentine - a smell that reminds her of paint and half finished canvases in her grandad’s studio, and reminds me of camping as a child, after walking through heather, reminds me, ultimately, of her, Cordelia, blotting samples of her perfumes onto my wrist and ushering: smell, what do you think, smell again, is it better, do you like it, smell, again, closer.
Pedro Páramo and Images
Pedro Páramo and Images
Pedro Páramo and Images
Oh hello I’m back, sitting in bed, looking out of my window at a sky bordered by grey house roofs, grey-with-dust window ledges, and full, itself, of soft grey clouds, the greys enclosing greys, reminding me less of what grey tends to (boredom, depression) but instead of smoke, of ash, of Cordelia, who I met in France, on my perfume course, who is building a range of perfumes around turpentine - a smell that reminds her of paint and half finished canvases in her grandad’s studio, and reminds me of camping as a child, after walking through heather, reminds me, ultimately, of her, Cordelia, blotting samples of her perfumes onto my wrist and ushering: smell, what do you think, smell again, is it better, do you like it, smell, again, closer.