Awry [sketch]

Halfway through, what it becomes is a block of rough grey on a pale yellow background, but then it swirls away to get made – through some invisible process – in to a neat new suit.  “It needs taking in, just a little.”  “How long will that take?”  “Only a few days, call in at the end of the week.”  Adverts for running shoes and running kit and running and running and the joys of running.  A little plastic figurine popped out of a packet, played with, lost in the sand, eaten by the sea, bon voyage, bon apetit.  The pleasure of writing things down, tippy tappy tippy tappy, getting somewhere.  A block of rough grey on a pale yellow background.  A neat new suit.  “No, I would say that fits you perfectly.”  “Perfect.”  The calm rolling in of the year like a ball in to the pocket of a snooker table.  No ending where there’s supposed to be an ending.  An elbow jigged, a drink spilled, a stain slapped across a sleeve.  “Oh, I’m-“  “It’s nobody’s fault.”  Still.  Feet pounding, running, running, the joys of running.  A rough little shape, hard and difficult, lodged, impossible to get to go anywhere.

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