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The rainy is heavy outside, the sky is grey, the hills are grey, the air is grey. I’ve finished work and I feel grey. But there’s a half empty white canvas in my room so tonight I take the paints I have and I fill the canvas with colours, in my head they’re flowers and fruits in abundance, to anyone else’s eye they’re blobs and smudges. I paint, in part, with cotton wool. I turn the radio on and find the Proms on replay, moonlight sonata rumbles with weight out of the speakers. I sway before dancing to the floor where I lie listening and writing those with the grey sky and splodgy flowers both in view.

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