peachpenumbra@googlemail.com
05/09/10
I’m on the front step, lit by streetlamps. Everything is orange. I have a fag in my hand, and its ash is littering my coat. Over the road there’s a piece of foil caught in the gate, and when the wind catches it it flutters at me in morse. I’m not sure what it’s saying, but it seems important, so I write it down in the snow. Where the light hits phone cables they shimmer like cobwebs, and I imagine the pole they meet at is a bird-eating spider, and that that is why there are no pigeons around today.
