Little urn

A silent morning. And a tiresome day. It feels like a rain of crushed stone and the hammering of the head against a wall. The only difference it makes is to the head. Days like these kill gumption. Silent evenings are dreaded, and yet the will to make an effort to alter it is absent.

There are samosas in the evening. Which taste good. And lunches that do too. The remaining bits are numb, like dull pale flashes of light that devour everything in their reach.

There is a photograph though. With it's saviour's hope. A lady and her dog walk along a lane sloping downwards by a house made of brick, with a neat door and window, whose sill is lined with ferns. From a window up above, someone parts the curtain to catch a glimpse of the street. That moment is captured.

So there are other worlds. Other truths, other realities. Of course there are. There always are. Someone give me a good book.