DAY EIGHTY NINE. Black shiny streets. Lights and reflections. Your focus only on what is close by. Tyres sluicing the road. Footsteps shuffle, someone goes by with a bag of chips. The bus comes, then everyone is gone.
DAY EIGHTY FOUR. "Another struggle against the clock." "An insignificant struggle in the general scheme of things." "Another blow for stating the bleeding obvious." Said the little birds as they dashed across the quiet park.
DAY EIGHTY TWO. The Man in the Moon is actually a big-faced bloke made out of scrap metal, who lives in a high altitude log cabin and suffers from seasonal affective disorder once every twenty four hours.
DAY SEVENTY, chaps. If I was making an atlas of Things That Fly, these might be nice: the wonderful irridescent fly found in the window track; the butterfly from a now mostly closed family scrapbook; and the small antlike creatures who wish to take to the sky in hand-propelled dirigibles.
DAY SIXTY SEVEN. Three men with a vision of a new kind of acrobatic entertainment. Something for the workers in the ice-locked industrial parks of the north. Something involving clenched teeth and trenchcoats.