Mostly cloudy skies with a high near seventy degrees while C. and I sat in the National Gallery, awaiting the results of our mandatory Covid tests so we could fly home.
We spent a week shivering in a damp atrium with rain dripping down the sides. We called it the Tarkovsky Box.
It was nice to believe in the future for a little while.
The usual clouds, the usual forty-something degrees, and there’s a photograph of my mom on the massive screen behind us.
London. A sunny Wednesday morning with highs in the 50s, the sun goes down at 5:30pm, and I’m recovering from an exhibition of Francis Bacon’s animal paintings.
Few things feel as eternal as a lone bus stop in the middle of the night.
London. Record-breaking wind swept across England yesterday, closing bridges, train lines, and attractions.
I keep colliding with people in the streets and shops. I just can’t pick up the rhythm here.
