That Autumn the trees were laden with fruit, each one bitter and hollow, the cakes made from them needed ladles of sugar, and still they caused dreams so deep and murky that even the bravest feared drowning... Autumn is coming quickly, washing in, in torrents, today smelt of rain and earth. That rich, brown scent of Autumn. The light is golden, underneath the storm clouds...
I'm not sure I like this narrative, I'm getting nothing done, every time I turn around another day has come and gone... My notebooks are instead filling with lists, lists of what I love, what I don't and who i want to be...
I love the smell of rain, and the sound of pearls. I love jumpers over dresses and bare feet. I love compasses and loathe clocks.
The woman I want to be speaks fluent french, plays piano and leaves apple cake to cool on her windowsills. The woman I want to be trusts herself and owns red silk shoes, she eats pears walking down the street, she accepts a compliment about her looks and her secrets are only recipes...
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