A red tree sits outside my window. It wasn’t there yesterday.
You wake up. It’s 7pm. You walk alongside the train line to 110 Chortle Crescent.
We’re not where we should be, that much is clear. Holding on to what we believe has never been more important, but K is wavering, pulled in other directions, and soon it will be too late.
READ BY PROJECT
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I didn’t pick my moment well. We were standing in the middle of the vegetable aisle at Harris Farm, in front of an over-spilling tray of truss tomatoes, shortly after incurring the ire of a short and beefy man in a four-wheel drive whose parking spot I’d inadvertently taken.
Before our parents started pulling their hair out over the apocalyptic ‘hook-up culture’ endorsed by apps like Grindr, tinder and OKc. Baby Boomers were still stuck in that fear-mongering stage of ‘everyone you meet online is a serial killer’.