Writing Journal 14/01/18

FWJ # 7 '...They were only half open and heavy, but her eyelids still made each blink seem effortless. She'd woken up late after the weirdest dream...'

Writing Journal 13/01/18

FWJ #6 '.. In the navy room, light from the street lamps frame the curtains, bursting orange and casting shadows across her limbs and curves...'

Writing Journal 12/01/18

FWJ #5 '..But in quiet moments his compulsion is not to count. In quiet moments he flicks the tips of each finger on his left hand, as fast as he can...'

Writing Journal 10/01/18

FWJ #3 '...I look like them but I feel more at home when the sidewalks are filled with a city's silence and dark pockets grow between street lamps and headlights...'

Prosopagnosia

One word. Thirteen letters. She can feel them cascading, tripping off her tongue as she sounds each syllable. She feels it double into twenty-six years. Feels it fold itself into her being. Comfortable in her discomfort. Face value. Face blind. Facial confusion of her own doing. Knowing not whether to smile, to frown, to turn...