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This place is full of those spores. This place is full of those spores. This place is full of those spores. This place is full of those spores. This place is full of those spores. This place is full of those spores. This place is full of those spores. This place is full of those spores. This place is full of those spores. This place is full of those spores.

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from “Afterlife”

Angela Woodward·
The knock had happened on one of those other days, where the date reigned over its little space on the calendar's grid, no appointments, no holiday, a day that had entered with morning and frayed into dusk but that still bore its numeral in case anyone came back to fill it with something in retrospect.
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