I've always imagined shame as the damp mustiness of mould that develops into rot, which eventually overpowers the senses and becomes self-justifying, lingering in the mind as the perfume of death is wont to do.
I think there's something wrong with me. I read this article, which is genuinely good, the subject matter that is. Something about it nibbled at a place inside me.. I just can't name it.
I've always imagined shame as the damp mustiness of mould that develops into rot, which eventually overpowers the senses and becomes self-justifying, lingering in the mind as the perfume of death is wont to do.
It seems we’ve arrived at the same address. No longer hosts. How refreshing x
The house
was still standing.
No one lived there.
I think there's something wrong with me. I read this article, which is genuinely good, the subject matter that is. Something about it nibbled at a place inside me.. I just can't name it.