Tom St. John

Sydney in winter is a strange affair.

Everything feels dog-eared, on pause.

Ingredients Primary category in which blog post is published

Hemlock

Of Philosophical Deaths and Slowly Strangling Sheep

I should accept that this place has always been an island

After class, I walk toward the exit looking—like my students—not toward the future but at my phone’s screen.

The Wrong Kind of Good

On playing netball at school in South Africa