One of my most distinct memories is fingering these as I ate porridge, changed and powdered into new clothes, and generally played around the home, as a kid.
I was fascinated with these tiles. They were a lot shinier then.
"When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man I put away childish things." I Cor. xiii. 11.
And now I take them back.
Why is it that when I listen to Silje Negaard's 'The Waltz' I get so sad, but at the same time I just can't stop putting it on repeat? I'm like, digging my own grave, then hitting myself with the spade, over and over again.
It is time to go move the fuck on.
Where to, though? Can it be, for once in my life, my imagination fails me?
Let's play 'The Waltz' a gumillion squillion more times tonight.
And my eyes are starting to hurt again...
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