Voices inside my head

What makes rhythm, the beat, the sloooww and tantalizing sound that reverberates and bounces off walls like fuzzy striped yellow balls speeding out of a steady steel machine that drums, drums, drums...french manicured fingers tapping a white Formica table.

The beat wrapped and tightened around the everyday, the camera helps me see, the sounds of beatific tunes trailed on our heels as we swirled through Camden. Dogs barked and cranes squawked along a Regent walkway.

It was fun to have a Friday off (especially given the thick and syrupy rich tension that envelopes the office, blue felt partitions mingle with anxiety and uncertainty to truly separate warm but no longer present bodies) and spend it with family visiting from France.

I am ready for the next turn ahead (actually I am getting a crink in my neck from looking ahead, behind and all around; it's lurking like that the Mr Strings advert).