The Globe at the door, a jaunt to the square for the Sunday Times.
Later the path you made has healed, anyone may use it.
A good day for a fire.
Fast clouds tug their moorings of rain, bent like a wet field in the wind.
It's almost dusk when you look out, the sun falling, visible beneath the curds of clouds.
Open the window.
It's like leaving the door to the shower stall open.
A draft and a few bars from the Linz Symphony wend in, like an exact crack in a damp wall of white noise, the dial tone, the breathing of sleepers, the dub-dub of a car's left tires smattering the manhole cover on Ware St.
The music of others is almost enough, but you can put on a record to be sure, to make you want to dance late in the day in a light that seems to come from inside the cloud bellies, like the rash that breaks out just below the skin over a woman's breasts as orgasm comes on, and on, and goes.
