6
" But I prefer the windy days, the days that strip me back, blasted, tossed, who knows where, imagine them, purple-red, silver-pink, natural confetti, thin, fragile, easily crushed and blackened, fading already wherever the air's taken them across the city, the car parks, the streets, the ragged grass verges, dog-ear and adrift on the surfaces of the puddles, flat to the gutter stones, mixing with the litter, their shards of colour circling in the leafy-grimy corners of yards. "
― Ali Smith , Public Library and Other Stories
9
" Every rose opens into a layering of itself, a dense-packed grandeur that holds
until it spills. On days that are still I can trace, if I want, exactly where I’ve been
just by doubling back on myself and following the trail I’ve left.
But I prefer the windy days, the days that strip me back, blasted, tossed, who
knows where, imagine them, purple-red, silver-pink, natural confetti, thin,
fragile, easily crushed and blackened, fading already wherever the air’s taken
them across the city, the car parks, the streets, the ragged grass verges, dog-ear
and adrift on the surfaces of the puddles, flat to the gutter stones, mixing with
the litter, their shards of colour circling in the leaf-grimy corners of yards. "
― Ali Smith , Public Library and Other Stories