a mentally unstable british poet and programmer who is unreasonably into werewolves. I water the Yew trees.
"Hidden", more like. It's an open secret.
All of these plot holes, it's like Britain's roads!
How the last week turned belief from concept into practice
I should not be sorry.
Anxiety is killing me.
No, I’m not AI. I just write like that.
Because... well, just because.
I just want Scottish Gaelic to survive.
An unexpected motto of the Atmosphere
Valve finally counted to Three.
How not to make a first impression.
...I guess I could ask my dad if he wants a redirect link to his business?
something that I didn't need to justify, but here's my reasons.
Ah yes, tempting a werewolf with raw meat into one cage and to the next, surely that won't go wrong!
This is one of those spontaneous thoughts that just popped into my head, the kind that refuses to leave until I've written it out properly. So here we are.
In 'An American Werewolf in London', How Long Did Jack Walk?
Honour, endings and the quiet rites Christmas swallowed
Murdered by a vampire right in front of us, poor lass.
a twice-yearly ritual I still don't understand
I've finally done it. The Leaflet migration is complete.