"Prose fills a space, like a liquid poured in from the top, but poetry occupies it, arrays itself in formation, sets up camp and refuses to budge.
The melancholy comes over me, the dismal misery of not knowing where I am, or perhaps losing any sense of who I am, as if the mist is bringing about an evaporation of identity, all the certainties of the self leaching away ...
Photo by Ákos Szabó
Photo by Ian Turnell
The melancholy comes over me, the dismal misery of not knowing where I am, or perhaps losing any sen...
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