April was the cruelest month, streaked by stress, studded with uncut diamonds.

Trembling zeros and ones caught in a digital memory loop.

Mashup desires and more. Masses of moments so brilliant and delightful.

And the earliest summer being a Campari-red breeze running through Battersea park.

Viola is the colour. 10 on 20, glorious in 23 volumes.

Flightpath across melting alpine ice. Fear. Fruitful. Physical. Immaterial. Immanent.

Lakeside on Lago Maggiore. Covent Garden at dusk. Heathrow Terminal 2.

Migrating and mutating. Making.

More of me.