Back up, back up.
Even my own glasses can be rose tinted, at times. Human nature, self-preservation, mental masochism – whatever the reason, I’m just as prone as anyone else to imagining a past more perfect than the present. It probably does me no good.
It started in the woods.
I’d like to say it started in the forest, because forests are enchanting in all the most wicked ways; but it started in the woods, where kids skulked off for fags and TWOCers burned out their rides and where, bafflingly, you’d get the occasional abandoned fridge-freezer.
Explosions in Slow Motion 