Bastard weather
Today is a grey day, in a grey city. The cars growl past with a sound of damp tyres, and the single bird trilling in the tree sounds almost desperate, rather than joyful or uplifting. A couple of people trudge past underneath my window, staring at their feet. A damp cold pervades the air, even inside the house.
It is a grey day, in a grey city, filled with grey people.
Last night the city was full of life and colour, flavour and laughter. A buzzing metropolis of light and music, proclaiming its purpose to the universe. Today, even the children are dressed in grey, and the streets are silent, save for the cars, and the single bird.
For a moment I wonder whether if my hair were still pink it would add some colour to the day, inject some vibrancy and life that seems to have gone missing. But even the brightly coloured cars and clothes look grey today, as if the colour remains, but the meaning has fled.
It is a grey day, in a grey city, filled with grey people living grey lives.
I wish I still had pink hair.
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