All night I dream complicatedly and wake up reluctantly to a dripping colourless world, as though someone has tried to wash away yesterday's painting. Through the half moon window on the way down the stairs I see a plump pigeon, the same shade of grey as the rain and the roof he is sitting on. Who has stolen all the colours?
As we drive west the clouds loosen and I am willing the sun to come. The bluebells at the side of the road are a tender shock of indigo, colour unclaimed by the night thief.
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