work works.

a shrouded sun peaks periodically through a thickly veilled sky to cast blurry shadows onto a damp dark ground. from within the warmth of my car, and a pool of chill tunes streaming from the speakers, the outside world just beyond the windshield looks cold and bleak as dark clouds roll in over the sea. waving tree branches against a grey backdrop and dancing leaves across an asphalt parquet suggest change is in the air and an end to days of sun and clear skies. crowds of chirping birds and an occasional airliner passing overhead break the once-relative silence with an uproar of chatter or a long droning rumble, while the shriek of a fire-engine siren pierces through the auditory miscellany. a few yards away, the beeb-beep-beep of a reversing truck brings with it a handful of day-laborers to pick up where they left off, attending to a pile of concrete debris with unspoken efficiency and dilligence. it's about time i clocked in for work.

work is the curse of the drinking classes.
: wilde.