Just an archetypal, middle-class life with a dark-haired lawyer husband who looks remarkably like Ed Stoppard... OK, maybe an accountant who looks like Martin Freeman.
October sunlight stumbles into the room as I rise, shrugging off the curious telepathy of dreams. Dandelion prints chase their yellow tails across the walls; it is as if you were never here.
The street light on the corner faded to a flickering, blood-red wound, and when I woke up at dawn it stood there, black and solemn, like a burned-out match.
the shrunken envelopes and newspaper are brown and crinkled like the underside of a mushroom, and the slender black sticks are curved with the symmetry of bones.