Awake, and out walking, before the day, which does not
break into existence but permeates from indiscernible source; colours are not
the same, without light, this is a different world, a world at the edge; if the
edge exists; here the boundaries are snicked twists of bare hedge, like
brainstems; this thought leads; or does it filter into; the lane being a
synaptic path; and then there's me, got my high-vis jacket on, a fluorescent
spark: starting the day as an imagined electric pulse in a science museum
landscape.
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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