Forecast sunshine is cordoned off by cloud. The lazy warmth gets through, it is sinking into the ground, looking for bedrock. Every step sends a spray of rainwater back into the air, and it falls back down in a re-enactment. Dog runs in her water-world, she has had breakfast, she is out in the fields, the fulfilment of her sensible expectations bring much happiness. I have found some germs that I am sure don’t belong to me. My nose has a tide now, a fast tide that I try to hold back with strong tissues. I think, I have had breakfast, I am out in the fields, it is a fulfilment, and even two achievements. Imagine not being able to wipe your own nose. Remember how lucky you are. I say thank you, universe, and the temperate light trickles down.
There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

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