Words come in a stream from the chimney of the DSS. They rise to the height of a man then pile like yellow fat; flattening out on a cushion of cold air that sits in the vale. Clouds loiter over the ridge. When the cat comes in its fur’s full of autumn; the smell of lichen and cold earth. She brushes against my hand and I scratch the colour of leaves against my fingers. Red and black bricks; kiln fired.
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