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Bleak Week/Monday.md

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+Overnight, a frigid wind had moved in silently from the ocean to the south.
+It descended from a height above, was channelled toward the east, and passed over a series of jagged glassy peaks that lay perfectly aligned along an axis to the north.
+The oppressive cold of the antarctic wind had suffocated the morning dew into a thin layer of crystal ice that capped each of the peaks but for one.
+The sharpest of them was slick with deep red blood, clinging on to liquidity as the wind, bolstered by a cold blue August sky overhead, slowly eroded its residual warmth. 
+Walking westward, soft silent footsteps gave way to the rising sound of glass cracking resonantly underfoot. 
+
+Visible through the shattered pane: the deep green grass of the courtyard, interspersed by thick  weeds resembling spinach and furry tufts of moss that had been torn up by blackbirds in search of worms in the early morning light. 
+Beyond: an ailing lemon tree, parasitised by wasps and leaking fragrant sap from its limbs, yet heavy with fruit in protest of its condition.
+The scene of green foliage and citric yellow backed by the wintry blue sky cut against the red puncture wound and shimmering whites of the broken glass,  it was complete in its composition, and absolute in its ==foreboding==. 
+
+An alarm was ringing. The source of the noise reported the time as 8:34am. For four minutes he must have stood transfixed by the damage, oblivious to the incessant beeps and vibrations of the device. More noises filtered into consciousness as a return to awareness began. 
+A generator was humming dimly, then, a popping sound, followed by another, louder and of a different timbre, then the first again. Soon the sounds were rapidly alternating, although without rhythm and at no fixed cadence. 
+
+Nail guns. Construction had resumed on the lot next door. An unfamiliar shadow was being cast on the faded courtyard bench seat by the back door. Stepping through the door to investigate, the sensation of the morning sun pouring upon his face, weak as it was this time of year, was absent. Scaffolding towered overhead, obscuring the light, clanking when it was mounted and creaking while it was traversed.
+
+The frame of the building had risen to a second storey and four wide voids in the timber work made clear where windows were to be set for the rooms of the upper floor.
+One of the tradesmen paused as he reached the top of the scaffolding and looked down at him standing on the courtyard pavement. 
+The sun had risen slightly, eclipsed by the tradesman, who was visible only as a dark expressionless silhouette. He waved; the silhouette made no motion in return, until it abruptly resumed climbing onto the roof of the structure. 
+
+A third nail gun began firing.
+
+
+- war on peace
+- return inside
+- 8:45
+- blood
+- breakfast
+- nothing obviously taken
+- tick tock
+- 8:58
+- standup
+- forced reboot
+- corporate spyware
+- monitor flashing off and on
+- 9:04
+- good weekend?
+- ...
+