in the words of future islands – seasons change, and I’ve tried hard just to soften it. The last few weeks have been a whirlwind blur of rain, fallen leaves, big emotions, floating and falling, and a lot of bechamel sauce. I might have turned into a stick of butter. Or a loaf of potato sourdough. Or a block of mature cheddar. Or the scattered flour on the hob after blindly making a roux with no indication of measurement.
Is It Autumn? I Hadn't Noticed
Is It Autumn? I Hadn't Noticed
Is It Autumn? I Hadn't Noticed
in the words of future islands – seasons change, and I’ve tried hard just to soften it. The last few weeks have been a whirlwind blur of rain, fallen leaves, big emotions, floating and falling, and a lot of bechamel sauce. I might have turned into a stick of butter. Or a loaf of potato sourdough. Or a block of mature cheddar. Or the scattered flour on the hob after blindly making a roux with no indication of measurement.