Tuesday, February 26, 2008



The wind is rushing about outside and I enjoy closing the windows to it. It quietens to a dull whistling breeze shifting the curtains slightly. I like the quietness; I like it that you can hear every noise as though inside a film, the creek of the floor and the drip of the piping outside. I turn off lights and turn small lamps on. Still, like candles, the lamps spray shadows across the magnolia paintwork. Everything adjusts to the new ambiance which is soft and delicate. As fine and outlined as I want them to be, devoid of any description from outside. At night the real-time worries, plans and purposeful noises fade and all that is left are the shapes of things when left with no purpose. The wind and the rain patter on the streets. The night is crowded out.

My place is here in my bed, the covers surrounding. The whole scene is straight out of some tale, with a knock at the door, my eye darting towards the handle; streams of water flowing through the dark streets. Putting my arm out and hanging onto passing lamp-posts. Being swirled around corners and being swept down into underground stations platforms.

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