Dying is probably easier than this

It’s Thursday, 06:15 You wake up to the alarm knowing you will never win an Olympic medal publish a novel that would win the Man Booker, finish your degree or even pay the last R150 you owe Woolworths. Your first grandchild will die before you and each of those candles you lit in the cave

London’s Molten Hour

Bye, bye, people. I’ll call you later. Are you going home now? To all the dusty rented rooms, nasty pine furniture with walls on other people’s flushing toilets, Skype calls and rhythmic thuds they try to obscure with loud beats of an album on repeat. Another aeroplane. A train. We reside near transport under a

Would you ever live in Heather Green?

Would you ever live in Heather Green with a lamp missing a tassle from its shade? Lit tealights in the glass holders on the rented windowsill occasionally Assam from loose leaves in a pot. Would that be a life to live? Where there’s no need to mow lawns on a Saturday because you own no