3:30pm, The Last of The Uncertain Summer Days

A white sky.
The sound of a band from the Brunswick Festival, across the other side of Western Road. Muted songs drifting on the no-breeze.
A half finished painting on my floor.
New job on Monday, hopefully.
The closed-in hours of the last of summer.
Dreams of Kinloss, and the mysterious parallels between the two estates there where I lived.
A day drifting by.
In winter twilight would be gathering.