I mooched over to the window, mug in hand. Out there, beyond the cold glass, the rain thundered into the lake. Rows of water droplets collected along the edge of the guttering, rolling like marbles until they dripped off. The sky was bleak and grey above the office roofs and the full-leafed June trees.
I’m super-tired. My head’s too heavy for my shoulders and my mind is woozing in and out of reality. I feel disconnected, as though already in a dream - but not the kind of dream where consequences don’t matter - the kind of dream where everything is real enough for it all to be just about believable.
There was a ghostly grey reflection out there on the lake: superimposed on the world as though belonging to a different time when everything was a bit less confusing or frightening, holding a translucent mug of tea, sighing back at me in reverse. It occurred to me that I was the only person who could see him.
I’m clearly way too tired for a Monday. I’ve also got something wrong with the inside of my head that paints the world grey sometimes. Well I mean it actually is literally grey today anyway, like a proper rainy downpour of a day, but that isn’t really helped by being a bit colourblind sometimes.
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