Walk into the air-conditioned offices, struggle up the the thermincline to my stuffy attic office. Open everything I can and turn on the fan.
Feel grotty. Take some Resolve and a vitamin tablet, rounding off the two cups of coffee for breakfast.
Pull out strand after strand of hair. Stare in fascination at my non-blue roots. Rake my scalp, looking for blood to turn it purple. No blood, my scalp has been killed by bleach.
Powerful smell: meat, tomatoes, burning matches. Worry that the fan is burning. It isn't, of course.
Foot an agony of itching. Am I infected? Smear it over with antiseptic tea tree oil. Stop myself. Rational? Not very. Pill? Not yet.
Lunch first. They've discontinued my sandwiches. We can't find Lucifer but we do find Rowland. Ryan Hughes is in the window but not in the shop. Glittering things. There's a whistling blind man near the coffee stand. The sound terrifies me. Terrifies me. I have to say something but nothing seems fair or adequate.
Unexpected Colette. Stonecutter noise in one window tar smell in the other. Jo emails. Shelley calls. Can't adequately respond. Can't be right now bad ringing insistant glittering lost flower ends air culled line later Shelley sorry have to take my pill now.