digital are of a hand with a magnifying glass, lots of other hands with paint brushes, pencils, and pens like they are all trying to write a story

I am Yenn

Yenn. Simply a name. My name. New, different, wonderful Borne out of Yearning Of striving for identity That ongoing discovery of the unlikely and intriguing country which is me The true description of my self My love Unquestionably correct My old description, that dead dead-name of mine like a too-large overcoat Worn for an eternity without any realisation that there is one that fits Yenn fits so well. Every contour

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a woman standing next to a brightly colored dinosaur robot as it tries to fly away

A protodontopteryx robot

I kick at the sand. But then the stomp of my feet fades as the music does. With one movement I pull the mask from my eyes with a sigh. Let it drop to the beach to collect on my return. The stars fill the sky as patterns in the night, but I am too distracted by our conversation to appreciate them. I wish you had stayed. But then, would

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A Mudlark’s Morning

It is barely six in the morning, and the acrid mist already hangs low enough to obscure the dome of St Paul’s. The sky is only set to thicken as an ever increasing amount of coal fires are lit; perhaps ten per household in freshly blackened grates. There is no wind to carry the fumes, so all is still. It is bitterly cold for December. The air bites at Robert,

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