Grey mornings have a sense of forever. The sense of infinity between the moment a flower buds until it blooms, just as the tomato hangs patiently on the vine, waiting for time to ripen it.

An immeasurable spell of seconds ticking in a day, defined only by arbitrary footsteps walking down a side-street, where the unmarked doors remain soundlessly closed, their mysteries well-locked on the other side.

I stare out of my window and watch the clouds make shadow patterns on the leaves of the chestnut tree outside.

On sunny days, the concrete city soaks up all the warmth, storing the heat deep within its cracks, in case winter comes early this year.