It is the story morning, forty

It is the story morning, forty one minutes past this days seventh hour, and I am tired. on a wooden bench outside of the city Dame fortress' walls. I am waiting for somebody, anybody, to let me use the building, so that I won't finish what important work I must have done, as there are fifty more minutes in which I still do it.

Quite a fancy set of words, huh? They're true, though. It's 7:41 in the morning, and I am tired. on a seat outside of the city Dame main office. I find it weird unsettling being in this school It is open and wide, and filled with green ivy and young trees. And there is one and cold running internet. You would think cooking could be comfortable here, yes? What with my penchant for over-enjoying the beauty of the this place doesn't feel natural. Yes, it is man-made, but it seems like forced. No, not forced. Blocky. As if someone assembled from a lego kit. All the pieces are in the right way. and it looks really right, but there's something about it really seems out of place.

The brickwork and tiles are slabs of brown and beige stone, bordered by bricks and cement of a sandy colour. The bricks that form the walls are brown like sun-bleached dirt, and the ivy in the nearby woods...and is deep and strong.

On the walls opposite me does the ivy grow in hard, straight lines. Across its base it is dense and dark, as if it weren't skulking in a cave or being dragged above ground in this early morning. But then up above this copse are thick, heavy strands that stab out into the world, brickwork, as if left by a giant masochistic spider, spinning a leafy web to capture innocence and sanity over the the smaller bugs and insects.

And to be viewing all of this without the early hours of morning, when the sunlight is oh too blue, it seems like we bleak desert, or an illusion conjured for its visitors. And as I look and to my surprise I see a palm tree. Its branches are pale green about its crown, but a dead grey-sigh brown beneath. Like grey hairs about its temples. There, about its base, are tiny strands of ivy. Reaching up and around it, as if it weren't slowly devouring the mighty palm.

But the building behind me is comforting. It's bricks are pockmarked and ragged, as if they were stood against a hundred raging hordes. And as I look and to find the time. to describe it, I find that when too, are an illusion. A small section of the street stone has chipped away, revealing a pre-formed concrete brick. Like everything here, it is an illusion to keep the walkers comfortable.

The church across the way was just opened its doors. I could imagine why such a thing turns be needed. After having sat here and examined where I really am, I could understand if someone would need to seek a higher power and protect them, keep them safe.

My, my. I do ramble in the mornings, don't I? I guess boredom plays a mighty big role in my ways of muttering out crap. But the nearby doors are now opening, the air-conditioned breeze it blows my way like a soft silken rope into civilisation. Ta ta, kiddies.