Carrot Bread - Annabel Banks

"It’s the summer of 2011. I am in the final stages of my prose fiction MA, completing my assignments as I apply for the PhD funding I so desperately need. My room in Ealing is crowded with books, with piles of stories and poems that might be good enough, might be terrible, and then I realise nothing I read is making sense.
Words are changing as I look at them. Walking is working, collect becomes connect, or context, or couldn’t. The letters are changing, moving, vanishing.
Go ng, Go ng, Go e.
What’s this? I ask, holding the page up to my eyes. The words slide away, changing their letters again as I bring the paper forward, push it away.
This is not what words should do."

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