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the tiny rituals that hold together the seams of human life.
dusk is starting to colour in the gaps between the trees.
She gestures desperately at something, at meaning.
She has a quick shuffle through things in her head.
We are all, Esme decides, just vessels through which identities pass: we are lent features, gestures, habits, then we hand them on. Nothing is our own. We begin in the world as anagrams of our antecedents.
The laughter. Erupting behind her during lessons, following her like a dress train as she walked down a corridor.
Fog was sinking over the city, gluing itself to the houses, the streets, the lights, the black branches overhead,
She has spent her life half strangled by what-ifs.
It is a terrible thing to want something you cannot have. It takes you over.
