A Bristol Novella

A clock is ticking in the hallway outside. Sunlight is thrown into the room through the bay window, absorbed by the Indian Ivy walls, the linen Roman blind, reflected off of the white satin wood, the mantle, the skirting, the frames. Shadows created by warm air filter across the varnished oak floor by the bay, guilded frames glint with refractions from traffic.

Drawing board on knee, cartridge paper scarred with lines. Drawn, erased, drawn over. The dark walls casting shadow on to the plain on which I draw, onto the chaise lounge. And I take the Voss from the coffee table, and wash the dryness from my mouth, and rest my temple against the wall. Cool. Sill. And a restless child cries from upstairs.