There are golden scars in the evening sky. Familiar voice of miss Cantodea whispers sweet little nothings in my ear; the winter sun is crisp but gentle, as is the warmth emanating from miss Cantodea’s musical tomb.
A ruffled hooded crow is seemingly playing tag with me, flying from one portion of an embankment fence to another one further away and cawing. I bet it cries “WHY IS IT SO FUCKING COLD OUTSIDE”. I nod. Good bird.
I get back home, warm my feet and then doze off at my desk. I don’t dream of anything.