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The sky shows grey for the first time. A pond of grey matters in the cool morning starting. A bouncy theme of rain mildly, on the docket, till we care. Some doors and a proper type of tree for current events, we heard about new televisions. We now listen to exquisite types of maintaining. We hold a portion behind us. The news pops open the fridge, in which we keep. This strop of letters urges a narrative facing an ordinary day. Some examine, some applaud, some still like, most quickly establish. Still rain extends into stories of where we were. We were next to a chair, resisting the urge of parking metres, trying onions for a change. We were open to books and clocks and tapered candles that whicker. The closest thing still reveals marvelous distance. Religion tastes like bent oatmeal in transit.

Satisfied clouds remain.

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