070: steam

It drives people in, to the interiors, into the catalogues of plates, coffee cups, small spirals of steam, concentrates of the hissing rain outside. The pavement smokes, the umbrellas cower. The people run, take shelter under anything three-dimensional. They run blindly. Everyone, everyone talks about the rain, the cold, how unseasonal, as if every summer they’ve lived through has been a straight-up glass of sunshine. I stand in the midst of the people run out of the mist, hand their plates and their coffees to them, say to them yes, I hate it too, which is a lie.