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Written in a black, soft-cover notebook. Sized A5 and frayed around the edges from time, not use. Impressed into the smooth front cover: MOLESKIN. Inkless indentations score the front and back, suggesting it's more often used as a writing surface than journal. The handwriting within slants right, the loops blending together, superimposed and nearly illegible.Been looking for the word all week and I finally remember it— liminal.
Harper Rock feels like liminal space.
The cracked stucco on the ceiling's still cracked; even if the pen I threw up there is long gone and the ink stain's been diligently painted over, it's still bloody cracked... And isn't that a lovely analogy for this damned city?
I've not yet moved back into the flat, but I will, eventually. Guess it's a matter of how much longer Sol will let me run up her electric bill. It's been quite a feat updating my setup. Can't say storage's been kind to the wiring in my absence, but it gives me something to do.
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Harper Rock feels like liminal space.
The cracked stucco on the ceiling's still cracked; even if the pen I threw up there is long gone and the ink stain's been diligently painted over, it's still bloody cracked... And isn't that a lovely analogy for this damned city?
I've not yet moved back into the flat, but I will, eventually. Guess it's a matter of how much longer Sol will let me run up her electric bill. It's been quite a feat updating my setup. Can't say storage's been kind to the wiring in my absence, but it gives me something to do.
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