A Piece of Em's Flat

Em's flat. Sunday afternoon fading to evening. Behind the wicker chair found this afternoon on a streetcorner, the curtains are blue with the sad blue of Sunday twilights. A seagull calls out on the streets, a raw sound, strangely attracrive, its owner hunting for fish on darkening shores perhaps.
The light in here is yellow and looks softer than usual somehow, probably because I am still disorientated from hungover afternoon sleep. Anyhow, dinner is nearly ready and Em's keyboard is not working properly, so I think I'll leave it here.
I hear Em buttering toast in the kitchen.