It's like her brain is empty, stagnant and unable to progress past basic humdrum function. Cups of tea. The thought of the possibility of prospective action always looming. Books read only until the third chapters, scraps of paper (most blank), open bottles and full ashtrays. Pisa towers of books in the corners of the room. The mirror is no longer in a frame and instead rests on the floor against the radiator. The dim electric light, ill-effective until all natural light is dead, is barely noticable at early dusk.
She watches the world from her open window, the cold air filtering between her toes, heavy with its own temperature. The damp slowly rising through her bones provokes a shiver. The dark sky is clouded causing the orange glow of trapped city lights to be plainly visible above the row of opposite houses. There are distant sounds of cars and passing voices but nothing out of the ordinary. A coated figure walks past, collar up obsuring their face, she follows them down the road until they are out of sight. A kid on a bicycle races past beneath the street lamp but he is soon gone. Lost beyond the corner, the flash of his lights is still visible against the wall of a house after he has vanished from sight.
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