He lifts his head. Road clear. Down again. Into the relics.
Water slips between his eyes. Drips dividing concrete.
She lingers.
He tastes salt sympathies. Hides from reasoning.
Buys another bottle. Sinks.
His black shoes leave brief prints.
Less than three weeks to go.
Work’s coming on, but I can’t seem to stop taking photos of my desk.
I can’t even see my desk.
Yesterday I finished two pieces of work. Today I have started one.
Coffee woke me up briefly. Then spoke to Becky. She’s ok.
Went to Ely to find some red sheet type thing to be a sofa in my play. No luck.
So now I have all evening to get on with work. I want to drink.
It’s Saturday night, it’s been sunny. I’m stuck in the room.
Cat’s squeaking at the door. Can’t figure out all it has to do is push it.
She’s figured it out.
Straight to the window.
Now she’s sitting on Raymond Carver. Poor guy.
I think I’ll make a pot of tea. Little jug of milk on the side. Couple of biscuits.
Carver’s free.
Cat’s out.
I’m out.
The city changes shape.
It goes from being a sprawling canvas to a tiny ball of buildings.
The rain brings people closer to each other. Mostly when they don’t want to be.
The shape is interesting. It enables you to look around and see yourself.
Take a look at:
