The roof the rain, the rain the rain. A personality test, a room the rain, a package, the rain, a room, some soup.
Third gear to fifth gear, revs counting down as speed counted up. A street called tidy has to live up to its name. Luckily as I look onto it desperately seeking some kind of dirt a man with a long cleaning pole is tending the windows.
A girl applies lip balm, whilst coughing. A man with his hood up, eyes forward on a gentle incline, cars cross infront going up and down. My coffee takes hold.
I guess a shop is an hourglass. Ready to be turned upside down again the next morning. The sands of objects stand still.