58 SECONDS



I wrote something today, lying here on the stone, in the sun. When I had finished, I turned over onto my back, only to find, typically, that a cluster of clouds had rudely gathered and were blocking out the sun. I stared up a little annoyed (only a little though), and spotted two balloons that had escaped the notsotight clutch of a little person. One looked black, the other looked pink. Pink seemed to be chasing Black, though in reality I assume they were in fact tied together, and their distance away from me was confusing me, making me susceptible to flights of fancy. I thought of you, and then of us running away.

Once the eloping balloons had shrunk to sesame seed size, I decided that I would count until they disappeared. Shortly the Shark Patrol helicopter flew over, and I was briefly distracted by thoughts of a paradisiacal swimming ending in disaster. If you could have seen me at this point, I would have been glancing to the left and frowning. When I looked back up to the sky, the balloons had vanished. I guess after all that was their aim. I felt a sense of smug completion. Then the cat came and started biting at the end of my pencil. His breath smelt.