Across the ceiling, I watched a drawing being made in sudden go-for-it bursts of blue. Between each set of impulsive bold marks, the 4am darkness was made darker by having seen these flashes of eye-awakening colour.
Enough to make the windows shake, the thunder rumbles somewhere in my spine, like lazy percussion deep in the metal hull of an old rusting ship hitting against the hulk of a wooden dock, and I am waiting for the rain, remembering a David Bowie song.
The first traveller wheels a suitcase down the bumpy pavement towards the station, the sound of the wheels so different to those being dragged home and upwards. Out in the last hour of night, a blackbird is singing. In a improvisation of endless invention, all his joyous phrases are answered by a more distant bird.
There is no rain, there is no storm here, the blackbirds are still duetting.
This morning, I checked for blue lines on the ceiling.