Simon had been stranded in the moors for eighteen hours when he spotted the tent. It stood like a house-shaped bon bon amid the dead trees and bracken - a fluorescent pink poof at its peak knocking in the breeze.
'Oh thank God' - said Simon.
Not 48 hours prior Simon's blonde locks had shimmered in the sunlight as though he were the poster child for a shampoo commercial. His blue jeans had been creased and his sneakers all but blindingly white. He had embarked on an afternoon stroll in the fields at the back of his office - hoped to get a breath of fresh air before getting stuck into another set of spreadsheets.
Now though matted hair plast
Letter from Rodion Raskolnikov to Sonya Marmeladova
13th January, 1867
Siberia
Dearest Sonya,
There resides through the window of my prison cell a mud track, often taken by the peasants. They traverse by this route, in their horses and carts, the distance separating their landowner's estate from their farms. I'm not certain what it is they freight back and forth - their barrows are covered by those coarse blankets such people favour and it's not something with which I'm concerned.
What is of greater interest to me than the peasants themselves is the highway by which they travel.
It is the product not of new technologies
Simon had been stranded in the moors for eighteen hours when he spotted the tent. It stood like a house-shaped bon bon amid the dead trees and bracken - a fluorescent pink poof at its peak knocking in the breeze.
'Oh thank God' - said Simon.
Not 48 hours prior Simon's blonde locks had shimmered in the sunlight as though he were the poster child for a shampoo commercial. His blue jeans had been creased and his sneakers all but blindingly white. He had embarked on an afternoon stroll in the fields at the back of his office - hoped to get a breath of fresh air before getting stuck into another set of spreadsheets.
Now though matted hair plast
Letter from Rodion Raskolnikov to Sonya Marmeladova
13th January, 1867
Siberia
Dearest Sonya,
There resides through the window of my prison cell a mud track, often taken by the peasants. They traverse by this route, in their horses and carts, the distance separating their landowner's estate from their farms. I'm not certain what it is they freight back and forth - their barrows are covered by those coarse blankets such people favour and it's not something with which I'm concerned.
What is of greater interest to me than the peasants themselves is the highway by which they travel.
It is the product not of new technologies
If under mulch she sang a rotten
wood-like note with quiver
Nostalgic for her days alive
Surely they could forgive her
Most days it's quiet (these days it's cold)
Her bones observe the soil
But Spring is pulsing warm and gold
Teasing memories to boil
Like heated milk the liquid smell
of evening drips in branches
A honeybee who suffocates
falls near her musing ashes
"Is it wine or light strawberry?"
She asks him of the sky
Though his dead ears don't hear her query
The answer is "Like dye"
Just under mulch I hear a rotten
wood-like note with quiver
Flushing young in days alive
Of course I can f
So I've been filling out an online dating profile the last hour.
The first person it recommends is - pure coincidence - my closest online friend.
Ohh dear.
This is the closest to actual writing I've submitted to dA in a long time.
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Seeing a Danny Boyle movie is like seeing someone bust a gut telling an anecdote. It's like a colleague relating something that happened to them at the weekend, but hiring an orchestra to accompany them. It's like Christ! That was incredible! But then the euphoria fades, and you can't help feeling they've spent too much effort turning a three minute pop song into a symphony. Take Boyle's latest film 127 Hours. It's about a rock climber who wedges his arm between a boulder and a cliff face, and spends five days trying to free himself. Boyle uses every conceiva
I think looking back to when I was younger I had certain expectations of the older me. I simply assumed I would wake up and find myself competent in certain things, though I'd made no effort to become good in them, nor had any inclination to them. Like people. I'm not good with people. This isn't so surprising: spend most every night on the internet for ten years, and what do you think's going to happen? You're going to be a social butterfly once you hit a certain age? I don't mean that I ever expected to wake up and find myself a different person. It's rather than I saw certain ages as milestones by which I'd have achieved certain things. Li