the evening party /

a collection of writings, poems and photographs by the anonymous author ︎︎︎  
2019—present ︎︎︎ Index of entries ︎︎︎ Email ︎︎︎

‘Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent.’ —The Evening Party, Virginia Woolf


Time in lockdown is very strange—fluctuating, never steady.
Some days rush by, some weeks do—some days drag, some months, too.
Six years ago, these were—the internet told me so.
Giant puppets moving down the streets of Liverpool—slowly through crowds.
The sun was so hot that day—all the grass was dead and the air smelled of suncream.
Later, we ate Chinese food in the garden—and talked about Cilla Black.