Nothing in My Head at All
It's 10.52pm, and I'm lying in the hammock in the back garden. A towel's still hanging above me on the washing line, forgotten. It's quiet. Really quiet.
The sky is an inky blue, deep and dark, with a few stars managing to push through. Not many, though — around the top of the fence there are solar-powered lights, multicoloured, a bit too Christmassy for my taste. Red, yellow, blue, green. I'm not keen on them, and right now I like them even less, because they're taking just enough of the edge off my night vision that the stars don't stand a chance against them. The clouds don't help either — a pale, light grey-white, drifting across just where I want to be looking.
Every so often a bat crosses overhead. You can only really see them because they're jet black against all that blue — there one second, gone the next.
And there's nothing in my head. Nothing at all.
