I leave early and walk home. The clouds are heavy and glow pale orange, reflecting the street lights. Mist descends until I can barely see the pavement in front of me and my eyes begin to sting with the damp air. I miss my house completely and have to turn around. By the time I get in I’m so cold and miserable I go straight to bed.
By morning the mist has lifted slightly and in the east the
sun hangs like a ghostly orb. I often like to go for a walk on Saturday mornings,
before it gets busy and this morning as I enter the woods it feels like I’m
entering a scene from a black and white Hitchcock thriller. The world seems
rather more fantastical and mysterious.
while my mind returns to last night and the equally mysterious pianist. I
wonder if I should forget him and walk away like he has, but I can’t, every
time I try to think of something else he’s there. I’m determined to see him
again, to speak to him.
sun is burning away the mist and the sky is clearing. The bare trees brighten
and seem to visibly stretch their tired twigs in anticipation of spring.