It was the glass slipper of magical sights. I had thought wind splashing colour onto my skin was the ultimate chocolate ripple. I love how wrong, I constantly am. There is comfort in the rhyme and reason of isms.
Red tulle unfolds from the back of a ute onto the bitumen of my youth.
Hunter and gatherer: is it so crazy that I think I am both? I have no doubt that I set out on the hunt, not knowing what I would gather; only knowing that I would. And I did.
Red tulle caresses with tenderness the spring of my mind and a body that is dying.