Every morning, I challenge myself to write about a random event, object or thought for ten minutes in my notebook.
Here is last Thursday's entry as I filled my tank at the petrol station in the early morning:
Light settles like dust on the concrete.
Spattered clouds protect the early sun.
A yellow haze of pollution on the horizon fades into white, then blue; the closer to God, the purer the air.
The sticky sound of rolling rubber. The click of a nozzle. The whir of a pump. The rush of fuel through a thick black vein.
This ritual is performed simultaneously fourteen times by bleary eyed workers. No one speaks.
A steamy polystyrene cup is perched on a roof.
A woman readjusts her tights.
The removal guys open their fourth Burger King breakfast biscuit of the week. They slap each others shoulders, move in for a swift bump.
The sun breaks free from the clouds.
A man coughs.
An engine starts.
A radio mumbles through glass.
And two birds sit on a wire.
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