The tea in the cup, is scalding, and of English origin. Black. Sans lait. And as the days minutes are recalled, I realise nothing of true significance has happened. And that's the way most good days are constructed. Liberated from routine. Most of the day filled with chores, the kind that were used to pass the summer time.
And the brown liquid is slightly spicy, sweet, dry. And in the wardrobe a collection of shirts that have not been worn for a period of time, hang, as if new; and some indeed are still attached to labels. In the back pocket of a folded pair of jeans, A Moveable Feast. The pages of which I flick through. Until four hour fall way, and retirement is imminent.
And on a hard drive I find the following image, from last September: