I most often feel like a graceless strange slow, particularly prone to drowning on my back in the bath. So instead I tip, and turn, and sink. Over and again. All swollen and trapped like a great lost whale. With heavy blood in my fingers, if I have fingers at all, and eyes in such a place that makes it near impossible to see who has stepped closer to examine my enormous face.

We are fleeing, in a fashion, and we are coming here to collect and collate and keep things safe. If you are following me from elsewhere, hello. Here I intend to put together older things- expanding them and adding the limbs- and to show new things. We shall see.

Ever onward.