This is a bit of a scrap-book entry. Whilst dutifully procrastinating, I found some pictures I took, as well as an old notebook full of little bits of writing that don’t really fit anywhere. I thought I’d share the best of them.

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She is winter and woods, frosty mornings and cloudy breaths. She is the dying light you cherish simply because you know there will be no more. She is endings, she is fading, she is cold and without heart. And because she is this, because she is hopelessness and loss, she is fragile. She is beauty.

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It was 7.30 when everyone convened to eat. Pit tossed herself absently into an armchair and rubbed her hands together as Ivy emerged from the kitchen.
“It’s not bread and jam,” Ivy said as she noted Pit’s expression of expectant glee. Pit looked confused until Nathan appeared with a tray of crusty bread and bowls of hearty chicken broth. Phelan fell on the fare indiscriminately, years of fighting for food bypassing everything Iris had tried to teach him about ‘proper manners’. He did, however, pause long enough to splutter that the meal was, “Bloody good,” through a mouthful of bread. The gusto with which he attacked the soup was compliment enough for Ivy though, who blushed a little as Phelan scrambled for a second helping.

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