the lonely house

lying down on sun warmed grass. face down. feeling the warmth of the sun behind me like a blanket. in the distance, somewhere, faint smell of wildflowers. from time to to time, a hot wind blows. Far away, the crickets buzz, a droning song, comforting in its monotony. nearby the hum of the airconditioner in the house. and somewhere behind me, the house. the house that stands like a lone sentinel of the desert, in the stark, empty country spread around it. dusty, grey, thristy hills, thrusting sharply into the sky. An almost unnaturally bright blue sky. Nearby, the knowledge of the cold, dirty sea, tauntingly blue, mockingly gentle, as it laps the stony shores. the smell of eucalyptus.

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