blue buildings have risen over Redhill; prefab cottages glittering like toy plastics in the early evening sunlight. the exhumed earth is the same color it's always been, but in this light has the texture of the contents of a child's sandbox. yellow Tonka trucks stand frozen in catalogue action poses, completing the illusion.
At this latitude, the sun doesn't seem to set until well past 7pm; or, perhaps, it sets the same time it always has, and it's only the city that retains some of this sunlight as a means of maximizing productivity.
of course, it's Sunday. there's no reason to be productive today. is there?
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