Observations from 7:45am

The flat smells of paint, an unwelcome incursion from the workshops below. Stinging eyes and half-dreams of factories in deserts breaking down.
The door slightly rattles in its flame.
When I switched the hot water on this morning, there were voices in the Mews, but I couldn't work out what they were saying.
Half-light of dawn, a strangely industrial air.
Slipping back into cold.
The mornings are all grey horizons and the afternoons uncomfortable intimations of rain.
An open notebook on my bed showing spidery drawings.
A plate on the floor from Sunday night.