Early stroll. A temporary popup pink exhibition in the sky. Something growing in a paved-over garden. Headlights approach, rear lights recede. The big house in the distance across the valley. The minimalist narrative poetry of street names.

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First cup of tea: there is no time before this, there is no time after this. There is only this time.

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Early stroll. Parts of my apple are overripe. Pigeon ringtones. A street is a festival of angles. That discarded walking stick is walking nowhere. Low hum as though from a distant choir.

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Image from a dream: Sky replaced by a mirror, Folks stare at themselves.

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First cup of tea: in a blow to the news, scientists have discovered that drinking tea reduces your head-lines. ☕

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