Concrete. Concrete after the rain, or just before it. It’s hard, and damp, and coarse, and cold, and pale. Colour is sluiced out of everything. Your vision throbs and spins from the lack of summer. The whole world has gone World War II documentary. No vaseline-lensed laughter here. No thunder overhead, but thunder isn’t the scary part. It’s the anticipation of it. Just concrete. Walking, or at a bus stop - every limb in your body aching, and your mind tries to make sense of the world through the grey, through the fatigue. Your heart pounds because it knows there will be thunder. At any moment. You try to think of something calming - seaside, ocean. Your brain crumbles and fails. Too big. Smaller. You think of a lake - serene, calm, peaceful, quiet. But you can’t. The lake is grey and freezing and shale cuts the sky overhead. Suddenly you’re in a boat and unseen boots kick it from the shore. Big heavy brutal and black - the kind that crack bones or kick boats. You’re adrift in the lake, shivering in a cold and lonely abeyance. No oars. There’s nothing you can do. Just sit it out. Sit it out and hope some benevolent current brings you back. Sit it out and hope it doesn’t thunder. Breathe. Breathe. Close your eyes and breathe.