Sometimes it’s a Friday night and you take a picture of your shoe in the night and fiddle with the settings because you’re bored

After the storm is warm. wet. Peace. Broken and splintered bits of me driven into stone by gusts of you. Yet thirsty soil promises down deep in darkness It will not storm every day.

A relationship in two bags.

Ever wake up, not sure what day it is, can’t tell what time it is by looking outside and also: it’s Iceland?

Them: look, I think you might be a bit starved of physical affection. Me:

Is she a model ? Who IS she?

There’s definitely magic here.

Sitting in St. Peter’s Square and a man just walked by with a shirt that read “CAN YOU FUCK”

Would that I could stay in this moment. Possibilities endless and hidden. I might never be back. The thought of being still scares me more than the destruction of moving too fast.

No I’m not having an emotional breakdown, I come to the Orlando airport from London, starving, and muttering “you’re not gonna cry, you’re not gonna cry”… for fun!

This precious angel and his toy monkey

Add me on threads if we’re all going there: threads.net/@beardybooknerd

Since I’m here less and less, follow me on my blog at zachmack.me And my pseudo twitter memo.zachmack.me

Day off. Under a dog. Bliss.

Here I thought Sarah Millican had posted bush on main