the white air hollowed outA quiet Sunday of books, music, sleep, last leaves and, suddenly, silence: Sunday suburban silence like there used to be when I was young. The white air hollowed out and every surface (once the rain had dried) matt, dusty, friable. Tap and it echoes. Tap of few feet on deserted pavements. Pale crackle of those last leaves. Thought bubbles surfacing and bursting softly in the emptied, slowed-down space.
I remember those Sunday afternoons, and miss them. But they probably only exist in my head these days, London has changed in twenty years...
This is searingly evocative, Jean. Beautiful writing. And, as always, stunning photo. (I wonder whether I should keep saying that because it must get dull, but it really is stunning.)
It was quiet north of the river too. I wonder whether there was a particular atmospheric condition which enhanced it.
So beautiful. So beautiful.
What Dale said.
I love your use of negative space.
Wow, that is a gorgeous photo. Very nice.
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