I stalked the house for years before Feist moved into it. A former butcher shop, now over a century old and swallowed by ivy, with large multi-paned windows, a huge fireplace and a tiny painter’s studio outback. With the limitless funds of a daydreamer, I imagined how I’d add a peaked roof, shutters and window boxes. Each morning coffee in hand I’d open the hobbity oak door and step into the beautiful gardens, the legacy of Bridget, the former owner. Now that Feist’s moved out I can resume my Looky-looing with impunity and not be mistaken for a star fucker.
Image by: Alan Baillargeon, Amherstburg, Ontario
Thoughts on her death date - There's a blue-grey tinge round the edges of the morning. My hat is nowhere to be found. . _ . - . _ . _ . - . _ . _ . - . _ The sunlight pouring into...
2 days ago