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Sometimes he would emerge from his bedroom around midday and the sun would be more or less bright, or else the sun wouldn’t be out at all, it being a grey day And maybe that was good, standing half-asleep in the dimness of the hallway, unsure of how the day would ultimately reveal itself   Mondays, without a job or anything else to go to, he could stare out at the city with a cup of tea going cold and try to think things through On Monday mornings, he believed, there were always questions In the distance, with a sort of great yawn, the city would begin to pick up from where it left off In these moments he felt the most sympathy for this strange thing, which breathed over him whilst he slept   Planes would fly overhead Big machines put into the sky, trailing patterns that, with time, became clouds Carrying people and things He listened to the crying of the planes in bed, looking up at the dark ceiling and imagining all of the unseen passengers who were going places, turning over on his side to hear the faint din of them reaching the edge of the night-sky, alive with impatient determination   He took a sip from his tea He still had a small bit of money left It was, he figured, enough to see him through the week   *** They had told her that a busy period was approaching so she took half of the day off, hoping to get back to the office just after lunchtime What had been cool and quiet in the early morning had become almost unbearably warm The streets, in the full sun, were now brash and bothered, jostling her on the way to the doctors Only now, hours since she had woken up, did she feel awake for the first time that day, surrounded by the sudden almighty hubbub of the city She reflected that this was life, more or less Life in all its offhand givings and takings But it was just a small thought and as she carried on walking her