Postcards (from last week)

March, 2015


It's hot. Like, real hot. The only airflow is provided by a single metallic fan, pointed at my chair where I work. Mia the cat is sometimes here, nuzzling her face into my foot. I'm trying to realise the world.

Someone dug a huge hole outside, and someone else is filling it. What used to be a small overgrown lot became a hive of activity, and foreign sounds. A cursory understanding only amplifies their mystery.


Those empty holes seem unsupported, and are also not going anywhere, and are also not shifting, and are also not emptying their weight into the void, and just simply, standing in the place of things that might have been.


I see them reaching their small tendrils around the framework, and I feel them growing out of the solids - there must be gaps, somewhere for them to grow, but I don't possess the magnification to see those tiny voids clearly.

My fault.

Phil James