This morning blows between sun and showers. Eyes open reluctantly. Everything feels reluctant. Tired weight drags.
This evening, as the car rolls down through a series of traffic lights, just another car in another row of cars, and we have drunk the last of the espresso from the lid of the old pink flask, I look up. I think I see a lost balloon, at first, a round of helium filled foil: or it could be a bin bag, billowing, swept above the slow traffic bustle.