stories without morals

truth is that we have no fucking clue. no fucking idea what it is we’re actually doing. our life from every angle looks to be alien. absurd. cause for concern to say the least. random snapshots incite rote lists of concern; to dos, yet to be dones, oh fuck we didn’ts. always sending us off kilter, managing to spin just a bit too fast for us to keep pace. how deep is too deep a sudden jerk in our belly.

so we very obviously have the sundays; all the things we didn’t do looming over us. each one bearing down heavy, tightening their grip in the muscles within our neck. we are wearing our stress all over us, and it doesn’t look good.

regardless, we’ve been nudging work forward at a snail’s pace, hopping from one client’s small step to another. a rather rare and disheartening way to work, if we do say so. add to that this warped wonderland of fashion week, a rabbit hole rich with content. with flavor. we’re a sprint finish away from unveiling the new site, quietly clicking in the background, labouring its way forward with love. we continue to creep our way through the tangles of love, it’s best attempts v life. and people are calling us a bitch en blogette. all in a day’s work, we guess.


One thought on “stories without morals”

  1. Anonymous says:

    keep yer head up! think of life like a muscle and each day like a rep in a set of life phases. If you are working hard you will grow, if you are not you will be weak and irrelevant. So keep up the good work, it doesn't go unnoticed. And then play hard of course.

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