bobby is cigarette ends thrown to the pavement, smog filling the air and the blare of a siren. he’s the wash of dark grey waves, the crackling sound as they hit coal covered coasts. the dark grey fog of the evening, snow covered hill tops and the croak of a grouse.
he is the north, true and tender and brutal, the pride of years of being undermined and the anger that vibrates through the chest at being ignored. and he is, above all, not to be messed with.









