Strangely cold today, while being exactly the same temperature as yesterday. Wind chill somehow breaching the walls, Day After Tomorrow style.
Time to engage the secret third combined weight of the duvet.
Midnight at 5.30pm. Proper Winter knocking on the door.
The delighted sound of neighbours’ kids convinced it’s snow.
Urgently loud winter hail.
The low sun with hedge swaying at the rear and tree at the front occasionally show me giants in the corner of my eye. Dancing their way around the house.
I only notice and look up when they seem to stop and loom.
Cacophony of birds out back, they seem to be shouting down a small dog.
Blinding, low winter sun season appears to be here. Alongside deep and exhausting seasonal dreams.
… they were, of course, tucked neatly and lovingly beyond the scope of human vision between two books on a bookshelf. The proper domain of scissors.
And again. A whole string of leds banished to the negarealm.
I’m sure I’ll find those scissors again this time next year.
I’ve a habit of setting things I don’t immediately need in some utterly random place that still seems ‘obvious’ in the moment.
Does not work well in the middle of Christmas Tree Setup clutter.
Weaponised autumn leaves shotgunning my front windows.
Denying the heating system its little victory by getting out my thermals.
One of the eerier strangenesses of our new autocomplete-based reality is that our tools now need to speak to each other like people.
Using the ChatGPT app rather than a browser appears to leak the prompt used to structure a response to the user when images have been generated.
Can’t hear the opening to I’m Deranged without seeing yellow text over that infinite black road.
Un monsieur triste en costume.
October skies, late-August temperatures.
Uh oh. Realising now that I am at an age where a wobbly train means constant vigilance against dozing.