Grey

A damp, dreary, grey morning yields to the comforting touch of hot coffee in a warm mug. The smell of rain on the air, lightly weaving in and out of senses. Pressing matters are no more pressing than the light purr of a fat cat on a windowsill, still and serene. It’s impossible to say what makes it so sobering and yet so intoxicating to breathe in this day. It could be the slightest touch of a blanket, crafted of mist and thin air. The steam from the coffee begs to fight off the damp chill and fills the voids in the air with the sweetest and most familiar of smells. It feels good to be here in this place, time stands still; nothing matters. There is no rush, no hurry. Worries have been drowned on this damp, dreary, grey morning.

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