exit_coma pony While enjoying my coffee on the porch, in the shine of an unprecedented February warmth, I wrote to you about new growth and comatose dreams. In the wake of this reverie, I looked down at the mug in my hand and noticed a crack in the rim. My illusion shattered, following the pattern of this crack that now exists in my favourite mug, the only one I've carried since before times, over several discarded lives and moving houses, one I frequently documented in photographic still lifes of moments long lost, remnants of times I'd rather forget, but wouldn't replace. I'll have to replace this mug, and perhaps it's finally time for that. 240227 what's it to you? who go blather from