limits

I want to write a short story about a girl that wants to write a short story about a girl that wants to write a short story.

Scrap that.

I want to write a short story about that witch I see walking down the long street of old stone and clocks. Her hat is black but not everywhere. It's like a spider spun a web - some places denser, some not. 

Intriguing face this lady has. It's tiny, pointed, slightly boggled mouth and I can never figure anything out about her eyes because they're small and squinty.

She once ate a pasty.

Or, she once was seen eating a pasty down the road that bears the writer's name.

In fact I wonder whether she lives in that moment, when Rebecca and the writer come back from lectures, in fact, after their lunch at Queen's. 

Time morphed today, as Rebecca pointed out.

Morph. 

Time to morph for us too I guess. Move. Change.

All this fucking crap in my room.

I'm moving.

"At least I won't have to use my ear plugs anymore"

Shit.