Worcester, England
31 July, 2017

I step outside and the air is cool, the ground dry. I embrace the air, I breathe in deep, letting the coolness of it wash over me. It’s so completely silent for a second, the only sounds the occasional drag of a cigarette and the old man next door coughing, I hear him through the open second-floor window.

Out of nowhere, a white feather falls down from the roof and it’s almost in slow motion for me. I can’t stop staring at it. They say white feathers mean angels. I think of time, and I think of a lot of the places I have been to and all the places I yearn to visit. I wrote a bucket list today and it’s made me anxious.

The old man coughs again, it makes me think of death. Not his, I hope he lives for a long time still. Just death in general. I take my shoes off and press my bare feet against the cold stone floor. It rained earlier today.

The distant sound of a car passing by reminds me of a city, and a warm hand in mine. I’m not sure it’s a real memory, now that I think about it. It also reminds me of an old building I used to go in every day, the one I used to call home. Ironically enough, it stood right in the centre of the city I never really learnt to call home. My mind has been imprinted with the stone walls that have been there for probably over half a century. They are still there, as are the memories. I wonder if the happiness of the time, the one I left, is still there; or if it ever was.

I slip my shoes back on as quietly as I can and step back inside. My head feels heavy, and the ticking of the clock is so very loud.


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