13 十三
寫 意
SCRIBBLES
風起 TURBULENCE
sometimes bombs fall quietly JASON REEVES, “SOMEONE SOMEWHERE”
TURBULENCE
風起
12 / 20 1 6
WRITING DIRECTOR
ART DIRECTOR
Georgina Savage
Christina Shen
the team
LAYOUT DIRECTOR
OPERATIONS DIRECTOR
Katherine Yang
Victoria Ngai
cover illustration
FRUSTRATION Jade Emsley (9r1)
WRITERS
ARTISTS
Frances Amos Chloe Barreau Bryan Cheng Vanessa Cheok Evelyn Choi Brooke Foskey Vivian Gu Kameka Herbst Cynthia Huang Sophie Kelly Constance Lam Sophie Li Ciara Liu Tippy Pei Erica Qiu Georgina Savage Jasmine Savage Michelle Teh Katherine Yang Josephine Yap Allyson Ye
Chloe Barreau Gioia Cheung Kwok Woon Cheung Samantha Chong Zoe Chow Jade Emsley Hyning Gan Jocelyn Ho Sanya Hui Haani Jetha Emma Lau Ethan Lau Rachel Lee Ciara Liu Tina Nelson Victoria Ngai Alicia Shen Christina Shen Kalysha Wong Flo Wu Emily Xia Hillary Yee
back poem
NOT A MOMENT BUT A MOVEMENT Katherine Yang (12g2)
A LETTER FROM THE ED BOARD
The Scribbles Team would like to extend our deepest gratitude to Mr. Quinn, Mrs. Parker and Ms. Martignago for their continued support, as well as to Ms. Lee in the Publications Office and Ms. McManus in the Business Office for all their help.
Our theme for unlucky 13 has come to prove more relevant in our ever-changing world than we ever expected – Oscar Wilde’s position that “life imitates art far more than art imitates life” resonates more with us with the emergence of every new headline. In “Turbulence”, we challenged the creative minds of CIS to unpack and revile their dark and tempestuous experiences. Among these pages you will find musing accounts and interpretations: from chaotic theories to trapped birds; from wild nightmares to rooftop indecision. Struggle is integral to the human experience. As we weather the storms of existence, we must know that the challenging times matter as much as the quiet settling of peace that follows. So, students and staff—take a moment to sit down and savour these turbulent explorations. The Scribbles Team 我們起初因一時興起而採用了「風起」這一主題，無獨有 偶，短短的幾個月世界上竟真的風雲四起。這一主題也自 然而然地比當初想像中更為貼切。這一期，我們打破常規， 挑戰漢基創作者的思路，以生活中那些驚濤駭浪的場景為 靈感，以求激盪出滔滔不絕的來自心靈的疾呼和吶喊；這一 期《寫意》行文也因此滲透出豪邁又不羈的筆墨，抒發著放 浪形骸，笑傲江湖的情懷。 人類從古至今紛爭不斷，這些挑戰與鬥爭見證了人類文明的 進步。時勢造英雄，成就了一個個知者、仁者、勇者。孔 子曰：知者不惑，仁者不憂，勇者不懼。不惑者明智，不憂者 達觀，不懼者理性。但這又談何容易？ 讓我們靜靜地坐下來，花一點時間翻閱《寫意》 ，細細咀嚼品 味這字裡行間中滲透出來的不獻媚，不屈從，理智而達觀的 超然境界吧。 《寫意》編輯組
Contents 12
08
冬天的螢火蟲
So It Is Like This Sophie Li (13R2)
Erica Qiu (12Y2)
12
14
16
19
21
24
27
28
Selene Michelle Teh (9G2)
To Whom It May Concern Brooke Foskey (12G2)
birdsong Evelyn Choi (13B2) 夏天的風
Triptych Bryan Cheng (12B1)
Winding Steps Chloe Barreau (13P1)
Raconte-Moi Une Histoire Jasmine Savage (12P1)
Tippy Pei (12R2)
breathe Georgina Savage (12Y2)
31
34
35
36
the vertical voyage Josephine Yap (11Y2)
snapshots Kameka Herbst (13P1)
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all the wild horses Cynthia Huang (13Y2)
Dreaming Vivian Gu (12) 煙雲月下
Ciara Liu (12P2)
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torpor Constance Lam (12P1)
Peering Through A Mask of Deceit Gioia Cheung (11b2)
So It Is Like This Sophie Li, 13r2
A body outside the body. The deer stepping through
where love is more fragmented and illusionary.
the silent arms of trees. Here, a third hand to strip the ribcage bare,
The heart is ripe and full of flesh.
too used to embracing the sea, where bones
My mother speaks like rain happening between the shutters.
are familiar and unclean, and the moon is kind as I
For her I would stretch the kingdom of hands.
take the breeze from the skin of my back,
For all of them the sleepless dust, the meat hook
where a secret tree is growing along the spine, veined by entire
through the lungs, look—how soft the silence.
oceans— Bring me something strange: the bottom of the sea cleaved open, home to a forest of trembling trees,
8
Christina Shen (12p2)
9
Emily Xia (8b1)
10
Ethan Lau (8r2)
Shoes
Ethan Lau (8r2)
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冬天的螢火蟲 Erica Qiu (12y2)
那天，外面的螢火蟲飄蕩在 白茫茫的天空中。 他隨著冬天的陽光， 陪伴著飛舞的陰影。 我伸出雪白的手掌， 不敢擦乾在眼角邊的雨滴。 媽媽哼著的美妙歌曲， 消失在冰冷的皮膚上。 你的笑聲跟隨著冬天的太陽 消滅在黑暗中 你的笑聲也追随著 躲回角落的我。 你知道，窗邊的花朵 在黎明的光芒下枯萎了。 我每天睡在刺眼的月光下， 昏昏欲睡的眼睛 跟随著穿過夜晚的燈光。
Selene
Michelle Teh (9g2) At first it was a flicker. It vanished as quickly as it fluttered to life. It must have just a been a trick of the mind, she thought, curling herself up tighter in her blanket. Soon, the glimmer of light had been forgotten, and she was sleeping soundly again.
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They had never been able to get to know each other, but disdain and dislike already characterised their relationship. She didn’t trust her aunt. There was just something about her…
Just as dreams were beginning to creep into her mind, she was suddenly awoken by the smell of smoke. Burning. The realisation abruptly registered as an acrid smell wafted around her, the tell-tale signs of fire starting to smother her senses and filling her mind with only one thought. Escape.
“I want to see, papa!” wailed a voice nearby. Winter. Her dear cousin. Her best friend. Oh, poor Winter. She suddenly felt a surge of despair rush through her. The unceasing tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks, as sobs wracked her frame. The flames were tremendously near her now, only inches away. It had already caught onto part of her dress, rapidly spreading across the fabric. The walls around her were in tatters, burnt and crumbling.
She bolted up from her sleep, fully awake now. She rapidly scanned her surroundings, fear and terror escalating inside of her. Wicked flames danced all around her, consuming every inch of empty space that they could find with insatiable hunger. The fire blazed around her, bright orange flickering in every corner of her vision. She wrapped her arms around her knees, cowering against the wall of the playhouse. It hissed at her as it crawled closer, eagerly making its way towards her feet. The only thing louder than the flames was the incessant tattoo of her own heartbeat, pounding in her ribcage and thundering in her ears. Tears brimmed in the corners of her eyes as the vicious flames continued to mock her with their ruthless crackling.
Wrecked. Destroyed. Just like how she felt inside. It was as if the destruction that surrounded her mirrored her own unsteady thoughts. One last time, she shut her eyes, trying to numb her mind.
She would have screamed, but it was as if all the sound had been stolen from her throat. Her mouth had gone dry. Panic flooded her mind as her eyes darted around frantically. All she wanted was for this nightmare to end. Except, this wasn’t a nightmare. This was worse than a nightmare. This was all her fears, every one of her most daunting demons, merged into one hellish landscape. It was too much for her panicked mind to comprehend.
The world melted away into darkness, and she was engulfed by flames.
Distant shouts echoed through the corridor. Instantly, she recognised one of them. Her aunt.
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Triptych
Bryan Cheng (12b1) "When I meet God, I am going to ask him two questions: Why relativity? And why turbulence? I really believe he will have an answer for the first." – Werner Heisenberg
The effervescent grey tinged phantoms – no, skulls; floating off an embered tip twisting, revelling, contorting – but within a shimmering second dissipated into the cleansing air. With each aortic hammerblow liquid crimson velvet, life in a crystal vial flowing, swirling, cascading – just a bullet away from being soaked into undefiled soil. And of course we’ve all heard of the delicate butterfly: its elegantly embroidered wings, fluttering over a sunburnt plain summoning tempests upon innocents a thousand miles away. Causation, repercussion, consequence masked under impenetrable equations what, through the vortex of chaos, comes – A shadowy glimpse Of the black veil.
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Tempestuous Heart Gioia Cheung (11b2)
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I was told that writing is therapeutic so here I am, scribbling this down instead of seeing a therapist like I should be. I don’t know who I am writing this for; I imagine anyone reading this is only likely to do so after I’ve passed away.
To Whom It May Concern
Brooke Foskey (12g2)
Anyway, if there’s anything I’ve learned from myself and from my time here in this world, it's that it’s so incredibly easy to succumb to the temptation of living within your own bubble and forgetting that anything exists outside yourself. I’ve always felt like my role in this world has been more of an observer than anything – to observe and contemplate the meaning of things, but never to partake in an active role. Existing, but not really participating in anything. It’s a lonely feeling, scanning the masses in the hopes of finding people you can feign connection and share your observations with. The majority are not interested in forming conjectures, as much as they are playing an active role in the world and making things happen. Earning money, forming connections, living life in general. They are not interested in your observations outside of where they concern themselves. Perhaps, you share your observations with someone; initially they are surprised at the revelation, but then you revert back to your wallflower stasis as they forget you exist and return to their other friends. The minority like myself are paranoid and have mastered the art of blending in with the masses too well, and hence are exceedingly difficult to identify. All you are left with is this helplessness, wondering why people just don’t seem to think about things the same way you do. Everyone feels isolated to some
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extent, but this inability to connect deeply and intimately with others is the worst kind of feeling. Perhaps that is why I wasn’t surprised when I fell into a downwards spiral of depression in my youth, falling prey to the allure of solipsism and nihilism. Or my warped interpretation of these philosophies, in any case. Nothing exists outside yourself and hence nothing matters was my new motto as I wandered through the monotonous routine of school, apathy my new response to everything. Aside from allowing myself to believe in delusions, I never did anything awful. But that was the catch: I never did anything at all. Inaction was my fatal flaw: I hadn’t realised it then, but by not doing anything at all, by simply looking for more evidence to support my hypothesis that the world was a terrible place (still true) and letting myself drown in depressive thoughts, I wasn’t doing myself any good or making myself any smarter. I was lucky enough to catch myself before my delusions went too far. Suicide never seemed tempting, but living in that passive state of mind was in many ways killing me. I haven’t fully escaped the ripple of this period of turbulence in my life. I still catch myself thinking these thoughts on days where things never seem to go right. I have not changed: I am still very much an observer. A cynic. An optimistic cynic. Maybe writing this is in a way delusional because I harbour hopes that my observations of the world will be beneficial to someone, sometime. Hopeful that years later someone will look at this and find a sense of comfort in a girl who once existed and who held the same beliefs and thoughts as themselves.
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Air Turbulence Hyning Gan (8y2)
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Winding Steps Chloe Barreau (13p1)
My feet pound the swelling earth, playing with the weight of the echo. I hobble to the garden with a blanket over my head spotting wind-tread leaves, buds waiting for the sun, pearl-shaped petals spread over the darkness of a cave. Flailing my way along the cadmium yellow brings more light to the path I venture. The daisies unfold their heavy sheets, my feet retire from chasing spent wind. Looking down at the thickness of their coats, how they nurture their tender dreams, I pick them up like a collector, then a curator, till I cannot restore what I have plucked, and the garden has a plot of my indecisive art.
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flux
Rachel Lee (13g2)
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Birdsong
Evelyn Choi (13b2) alouette, sing and get shot. plume girl tears through her skin with talons extended and a desire, a wanting to be bigger. her auricular pleasures: expand, expand, hope this breaks your echolocation. she bathes in dust, leaves the flock and sings alone, preening, switches to water and snow. shakespeare calls lust, aphrodite: repulse, re-pulse, one heartbeat not two, she swears. doesn't matter – the indiscriminate fire needs to eat, needs to kill the music. it’s just food (hunt), just silence (defiance), just a mauviette on a feather-blood plate and the melody haunting on your tongue. (and if you kill ‘em fast enough they'll stop standing up.)
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flux
Rachel Lee (13g2)
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Hillary Yee (13p2)
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Raconte-Moi Une Histoire Jasmine Savage (12p1)
When one looks for an escape, one might think of sandy beaches, over priced Mojitos or coconut trees. Perhaps one would think of the urban escapism of a good old shop, pretending as if spending money on trivial things dissuades the dissatisfaction of the real, more visceral things in life. Procrastination; life’s ultimate bliss of putting it off until it consumes you, like a monster trapped within a closet that you accidentally left to fester.
to her submerged senses, and if she tried hard enough they sounded like giggles, not sobs. Underneath the water her tears could fall unseen and uninhibited. She never liked people seeing her cry. It’s amazing how empathetic people could be when they saw her crying. It was as if seeing her tears reminded them of all of their own woes so they would then to rudely interrupt her grieving with their own laments. Besides, she always thought her face contorted in the most asinine of positions when she cried. It was like her face shorted out and every muscle rejected the thought that crying without tensing every the muscle in her face was physically possible. She didn’t think concealing her tears was a matter of pride, but would rather save what comedic talent she unwittingly possessed to be put towards a more useful pursuit.
However, when she looked for an escape, she closed her books, dropped her pens, and sat in the bathtub. There was nothing special about her bathtub, white porcelain sides with cracks running through it like marble. She liked filling it up with tepid water and sinking into it, clothes and all. Underwater, she felt like a giant had curled her up in his hand, soothing her troubles with his kind touch. She held her breath and pretended that her parents were laughing, not fighting. Her mother's sobs sounded muffled
She would count to ten and back again and again. When she couldn’t hold her breath any
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longer, she’d surface just up to her nose, and pretend she was a hippo lurking in a muddy river somewhere.
Reflection
Tina Nelson (8b2) Life would be great if I were a hippo, she’d thought. I could just lounge in the water all day. She had winced as her father roared spectacularly. Sometimes she pretended that they were animals as well. Father would be the lion in the movie, the one with the girl and the red sparkly slippers and the yellow brick road. Growling and roaring but always running away from everything. Mother would be a goat. Screaming and shouting and picking at every little thing in her sight. Life would be great if we were all hippos, she continued to muse. She narrowed her eyes and flared her nose, imagining it, but water had gotten up her nostrils and she snorted painfully. No, perhaps not. When she felt better, which often she did: after all, being a hippo worked wonders to put life in perspective. She would get out of the bathtub in her soggy clothes and put on some music. It was almost as good as the pills Mother took in the morning to muffle her problems. She wasn’t picky with her music, but she didn’t like too many words in them, because they were distracting. She’d get her secret stash of secret sweeties and allow herself to eat one. At the time she was running low, and almost had to get some more from the jar in the high cupboard again, but she didn’t worry herself about it just yet. She listened to her music, and hoped that tomorrow would come faster.
hands
Samantha Chong (12r2) Tell me a story...
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Haani Jetha (12p2)
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夏天的風
Tippy Pei (12r2) 啟發於村上春樹的《聽風的歌》 八月的風 是夏天的餘韻
每當夏天我喜歡吹著風 在海邊沙灘上畫圖 風一起 一切又歸為零
空氣中淡淡的鹽水味 跟檸檬味的洗髮水 是伴隨著憂鬱的清香
是在跟時間玩搶凳子 到頭來，還是沒有 找到屬於自己 的安穩
海水，擁抱，嗅聞 列車在軌道上刷刷行走 樹蔭下散落一地的葉片 隨著氣流輕輕地波動
風起了 但我的心 仍在那一片 草原上
草坪，揮手，觸碰 握得容容爛爛的一張單人來回火車票 夜空下微妙的亮燈 隨著寂寞的夏夜漸漸消逝 總站，轉身，緬懷
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吹著風 等待著那 左手只有四根手指 的女孩
breathe
Georgina Savage (12y2)
He would make a great photo right now. Translucent skin glowing a fiery orange under the dim light from below, blue smoke curling from his lips, or something like that. He was never into all that social media stuff. All filters and Photoshop. False perfection framed up nicely in six-hundred and twelve pixels. Pretty, but a lie all the same.
dow, the water running and the fan on. He snuffs out the glowing butt on the ledge beside him, glancing absently at the growing pile of ash that it’d joined. He reaches into his pocket and taps out another from the box there, then places it between his lips. Of course he’d known that something was wrong when she left. He was her brother for God’s sake. Her husband had been too tight across the shoulders, knuckles too white, the skin around her eyes just the slightest bit too purple underneath the smear of her makeup. But he’d trusted that she could handle it herself; that she would ask him for help if she’d needed it.
He raises his shaking hand back to his face and sucks greedily at the cigarette pinched between his forefinger and thumb. The cherry advances towards the filter, glowing hot against his skin. He holds still, smoke circling through his lungs as he peers downwards to the streets below. He watches as a cab circles lazily around his left foot ten stories below before parking by the sidewalk, half under the arch of his right foot.
He cups his hand around the end of his cigarette, flicking at the lighter with his other thumb. The sparks explode into flame and the smell of burning paper and tobacco fills the space once more. He’d seen her photos on Facebook later that week. She had looked happy. He inhales again, chest shuddering outwards. He can almost feel his lungs burning, turning to burnt shrivelled things.
The thing about lies is that they were prettier than truths. Easier to swallow. It could just slip past reasoning and nestle itself between other truths, like Judas amongst the other disciples of the Lord. He swallows, his throat working against the burning in his lungs. Then he exhales, smoke dissipating around the winking points of light in the sky.
He kept seeing her pictures. New place, new house, smaller and further away each time. New job, new friends, new bags under her eyes. He knew, deep in the bottom of his dying lungs, what was wrong. But lies were always easier to swallow.
He’d known her before it started. Knew the way she’d laugh and poke his ribs in the early morning light, knew the way she’d frown whenever she caught him smoking by the bathroom win-
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In the end, there were new photos. Dull eyes, skin mottled with bruises, a gunshot wound through her ribs, transparent skin against cold steel. It was her husband, they told him. Of course. He’d punctured her right lung and she’d died wheezing against the tiled floor in the kitchen. It is quiet outside. He flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette, watching it scatter past his ankles to the sidewalk below. He stands up. His toes hang off the end of the building, one hand to his lips and the other in his pocket, clutching at the empty box of cigarettes. He sways forward, more ash floating to oblivion. Inhales. Shifts his weight to his left foot, the other foot hanging over the edge. Exhales. The smoke curls upwards.
thoughts
Samantha Chong (12r2)
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Vertigo
Gioia Cheung (11b2)
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The Vertical Voyage Josephine Yap (11y2)
A breeze too strong a wave too great, Arouses the sleeping beast. The glowing sun turns bloodshot, A fiery eye of wrath descends.
Toss and turn, Froth churns and conquers. Sky and sea whizz ‘round my head, And merge harmoniously.
Thereafter time stands still,
With sanded eyes I chance upon The SHORE But cleansing waves engulf it, Reveal the mind’s own wicked game. For every cuss against the sea, Return ten woes to me.
And calm disturbs all peace. A crippling void suffocates, The waves roll mindlessly.
Dangling limbs of ivory, Shivering stiff. This body now half man half sea, Salt crystals in my veins. Lungs of water, dare me to breath–
Then strikes a blinding crack. Judgment Rumbles through the splintered floors. Disperse disperse! Overboard! Limp bodies flail. Bared skeletons. I grasp with no avail. Waves roar, My grip is let loose. Gulps and gulps of coarse salt Mute my agony.
I watch my frame, deaf to
My pleading thoughts: plunge.
Breathe. Float towards the abyss, Rest me in sure grounds. Left like hapless sediment, Depress into this morbid pit. My fantasies like beads of air Whirl into pools above.
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32
Kwok Woon Cheung (12y2)
Haani Jetha (12p2)
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seems to pool sideways in the spaces between the trunks. There is something in those trees. There is something out there. The sky pushes up, everything draining quietly, and the white ghost of my kite is floating down far, far away into the depths of the forest. I know that there are one thousand steps in the stairs to the city, and each one is weighted down by a blank-gazed statue. Necks crack under the force of dozens of exultant hands, their heads crashing to the ground. The jewels in their stone crowns are pried away, gone from us forever in this one blood-cloud night. I am disgusted, revolted, leaden, still hurtling away from the smoke and the bodies when I trip on something soft and wet. Someone stabs me in the ribs and I feel a jolt of shock. As the blade is raised again I am desperate to yank myself out of my body, to not be present when I die.
Dreaming Vivian Gu (12p1)
There is so much noise that I have stopped processing it. My steps fall hard and uneven, flashpoints in a greasy sea of memory. Every man’s hand grips a blade, slippery with light and liquid. Every shape is black on black on the new ruins. What happens here is sudden and then suddenly forever and there is no time to think at all, no wall to back up against, nowhere to look. The night fills every crevice not packed with ash. Wreaths of flame leap up on the towers, on the pretty ridged edge of a palace roof, and as things fall and fall around me my hands are empty.
The mist drifts as delicate as a spiderweb but layers and layers of it add up to form sheets of curling, sizzling static. There is a cool breath on my back, the faint memory of lightness, but my own throat is coated with droplets of dew whenever I inhale. I can’t see past this dense line of trees but there is nothing moving. I can’t see anything anymore. The gray is very dark now, the night nearly here, and I wonder if I’m not really staring into the insides of my eyelids.
I have lost a kite, a flying thing that broke its string, and I need to go after it. The dusk is oddly colorless, like someone had dimmed the light of the sky. On the edge of a gray clearing is a forest of evergreens. Mist rises cool and sweet like a long drink of water and darkness
Next, I dream that when I open my eyes my bed is seething with ants.
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snapshots
Kameka Herbst (13p1)
i. shades of rose and cobalt mercury veins burning kisses into emptiness cheap thrills icy winds and smouldering cities hair incandescent will you drive home with me? we can split the fare— i used to fold paper airplanes that never flew but now every photograph flutters just out of my reach ii. (vs. i) pastel and pale gold old notebooks, cursive letters “the s word”—skeptic— pink glasses dreamers and Dreamworks gossamer wings, dust happy endings fading, fading— perhaps they’re in my drawer or my ribcage what have i lost? you come home and ask and i say “nothing"
iii. six years ago i told someone i read a book i wonder if they know: i’ve finished it by now i can remember that i was a storm but i can’t remember what rain feels like lightning! please, strike me twice full exposure surely my pictures are enough for tinder? i(v). (vs. iii) last night i wrote a poem i wonder if they know: it’ll never be finished
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煙雲月下
Ciara Liu (12p2) 月下風起 蕩起水塘波浪 吹亂烏發雲髻 煙雲橋下 坐看枝頭搖曳 傾聽夜鳥鳴唱 曾幾度共步 幾度流連 盡化煙雲記憶 封存月下
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all the wild horses Cynthia Huang (13y2) all the pretty horses breed artificiality – ribbon-threaded needles thrust into their glossy coats.
all the proud horses weep their souls out – burnt red hooves stomping on dirtied tracks.
they hold their heads up in thunderous civility as people prey in dizzying sentiment, heartless glory.
they long for soaring plains yet stay restrained by metal chunks, lashing whips leather wishes, muted care wooden cages, careless bets.
Emma Lau (12g2)
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but all the wild horses fly desperately – the harsh wind breathlessly taints them, as they seek a place beyond thick clouds, grey skies reckless humans, drying lands. somewhere, a stray leaf softly whistles.
Flo Wu (12p2)
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torpor
Constance Lam (12p1) mounds and mounds of saccharine sand slide into shoes and sandwiches swallowing, sucking at tired feet. once in the foreground I watch them – easter egg windbreakers and fluorescents – recede now. tumultuous waves undulate the swell grows heavy as my feet swell in the distance the lighthouse spears the overcast sky it is to the lighthouse we go but if the ocean beckons if the curvature of the fruit in the fruit bowl calls – if the blistering sun tears me asunder if I sink further and further into the sand if they keep receding while my feet keep bleeding why the lighthouse?
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World Turbulence
Zoe Chow (8y2)
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Ciara Liu (12p2)
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The Currents
THE TURBULENCE
PLAYLIST
BY
Bastille
Dark Nights
BY
Dorothy
I’m So Sorry
BY
Imagine Dragons
Piano Man Roxanne
BY
Billy Joel
The Police
BY
Under Pressure Iron Sky
BY
Mercy
My Enemy BY
Twenty One Pilots
Shawn Mendes
Water Guns
Fall
BY
Troye Sivan
BY BY
David Bowie
Paolo Nutini
Stressed Out FOOLS
BY
BY
BY
Todrick Hall
Hans Zimmer
Daft Punk
Medicine
BY
Daughter
SCRIBBLES.CIS on SPOTIFY
Runaway
BY
Matt Corby
http://spoti.fi/2hrwArN
Toothpaste Kisses BY The Maccabees
Victoria Ngai (12g2)
You fell in love with a storm. Did you really think you would get out unscathed? NIKITA GILL
Made possible by the English department Printed on 100% recycled paper