The stillness of the humid night makes my mind wander into a distance that it has rarely traversed into since 2016.
It’s cold outside. It rained earlier. A small shower that soaks through everything that you wear. It’s classic English weather, or so I’ve been told.
It wasn’t hard to get hold of you. You were online when I sent the message. You might have taken a few more minutes to respond than necessary, but you did anyway, and I thank you for that.
The day we talked, the sun was about to set. It turned the sky pink, out at the sea.
2019. It feels like it is a repeat of 2018 but instead of feeling like it launched itself away from the linear timeline, it feels like it is dragging on and occupying the space that 2018 didn’t spend any time occupying.