Tag Archives: what‐-remains‐‐when–language–reaches–the–end–of–itself

Amber light seeps into the dark, softening the edges of the things in the care home —chair, curtain, glass of water—until  everything becomes mere smudges of shadows. I take up my pen, as I often do at this hour, to write. Habit, almost: to trawl the day for small truths, to catch brief scraps ofContinue reading “Telling Stories to the Night”