The fox is a single red stroke that cuts across the clearing. The colour seems to hang like smoke, you can almost see where she has come from. Her musk, though you can smell nothing, is specific like a thumbprint on the air. It isn’t raining but there’s a kind of wet on your face, a stickiness of insect juices dropped. The fox is rusty-dull, discreet, not radiant or hot or pulsing. Not agitated. Not randy. She is completely dream and intelligence sliding through the wet grass, the stinging nettles, the little brittle helmets of dry seed, a flower or two, relics of the drizzly, petaled summer. The lyric fox goes down to the creek where dark and dankness will mask her scent and the lovely rosette of her face x
Alice Morgan. A friend of John’s.
Alice: Oh, come on. Change the state of play.
John: Yeah, well, I tried that with you and it failed.
Alice: Only just.
This is a black hole. It consumes matter, sucks it in and crushes it beyond existence. When I first heard that, I thought, that’s evil at its most pure. Something that drags you in, crushes you, makes you … nothing.
Flattery to appease a malignant narcissist. That’s a frivolous tactic.
1x06 | 2x04 | 3x04
So, do I pull the trigger or not?