Here there is sunlight, slow and squeezed between the leaves of an apple tree leaning out above me. I am sprinkled by the voices of small children, by a blackbird's song, by stray and cooling droplets from a garden spray. Upon a slight breeze rosemary and bay and new-mown grass are blended, and the cloying scent of jasmine. I am sitting at a corner of the rockery, the light dark light of lawn before me, at my back a mass of tiny, vivid flowers. And I'm a chill, dark centre to this day - self-pity, and a knowledge that the blame is mine alone. And a darker centre of my own, expanding.
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