I took this picture in the attempt to capture the mundane which seems to be so much more ever-present and non-effervescent on a Monday, don’t you think?

I created this mini version of so as to catch those tiny perfect gems that often fall through the cracks of epic poetry; or, at the very least, attempted epic poetry.

Between the moments of writing are the long stretches of waiting. It is like being a forest waiting for a bird egg to hatch, or like being a human being waiting for a road in South London where you live to clear, so you can cross the street.

Not all those moments can be spent steeped in excitement. We feel boredom quite often, but you have to cross the street, eventually.


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