Today is waffling stream of consciousness blog post day because I said so (and because I'm writing this late at night and I wanna go sleep soon and I feel dreamy). I'm thinking about soft cores and shifting pulp around, kissing demons right on their bloody teeth, sipping fog and brewing streetlamps, bus stops covered in dust.
I want streets at night to be just for me, so I can shuffle down the middle of main roads wrapped in a hefty coat and the golden streetlamp light and wander through that exquisite calm that usually exists around 3am with no cars and no people. Just trees gently moving and the sound of my own footsteps, and the air moving. I want to steal time and stop it just to walk, just to have the streets for myself.
I like when I get home and that cold air lingers across my body, sometimes for hours. As if my arms and legs have brought some kind of outside in with me, nestled inside my bones. There's a pleasantness to the shiver (although I must admit the pleasantness of driving out that shiver with a hot bath beats it).
I realise anything innocently spooky delights me. Dense fog and moonlit paths. Tree branches painting shifting patterns on the ground. Looming alcoves. That sort of thing. On Halloween Elliot and I walked through streets of suburban houses on a quest to get pretzels (a very important duty) and I said I'd like to have a house that is as Halloween-relevant as possible. A spooky enough house. Realistically though, I'm happy to live in a hollowed out old log with all my woodlouse pals.