We've been scribbled in the margins of a story that is patently absurd
In Search of Lost Time
Consciousness comes upon me like I’m being dragged out of a tar pit. My mouth is dry. As I open my eyes, a judgemental glare of sunlight that permeates a gap in the curtains pierces my retinas. I close them immediately and jolt at the sound of a clang, then metal rolling on wood where my hand has scraped across the table beside the bed. A little thud on the carpet. Reticently, I open my eyes again to see what it was. Ah - just the copper coin I had engraved for Kate three months ago as a gift for our seventh wedding anniversary.
An artist discussing his painting with an acquaintance at the exhibition.
“Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. The smell of smoke filled the air permanently and the faint clamour of machinery buzzed softly and enduringly in the background of life like a drone.