Shouts big metal up there stilts down to here. The new fun hole of hop it’s white next door. Swishing bunches of blonde, lashes down. A rock’s not cold.
Look left and turn right it’s those bits again. Formerly the bark brown oak leaves gathered in shag rugs. The death of fall.
Rigid raised and lowered geometries and the edges it just happened to shave. Hop up down curbs quick stairs awkward one and a half stairs. Approach from the north. The sigh of relief that the door’s closed happy to ignore work colleagues.