strand

I write this preemptively, I am not dead yet, but I write as a matter of urgency. This letter concerns the matter of my body.

I do not believe that pleasure, to anyone, is a place. I grew up in a landscape desired for brief encounters - a ‘cultural desert.’

It’s a running joke among my friends and I that my twentieth birthday was the longest day of my life.

Situationships feel like a war in which you act like a secret intelligence officer gathering intel on your love interest.

I’ve found myself forgetting the walk from the library to campus, unable to recall the faces of those around me on the Northern line.

I chased the feeling, gathering words like flowers and stringing them stem by stem together, sentences adorning my neck.

I told myself I would become the girl who’s been there, and the girl who knows where you should go next. The Girl Who Lives In London.

Image by Adolph B. Rice Studio via Flickr In 1952, Martiniquan theorist Frantz Fanon published the pioneering Black Skin, White Masks ,...

Oliver Riba Fookes hates corporate green, uncovering his discomfort with the state of the UK in wake of the housing crisis.

Flight anxiety? It’s safer than riding in a car! Amazingly, this did not make me feel better about flying but made me scared of driving.