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The sun is out, the people out in droves. All sudden arms, all walking stopped on grassy verges, legs outstretched.

Edinburgh’s blinding flash of summer-white, stark black tattoos. There are unexpected head-stands to walk past, bright blue smoke to breathe in, the hot smell of meat charring.

Frisbees, plastic butterflies new to the curve of air currents.

Deep shadows for the cultivation of goosebumps.

Most clouds that come, blow on. Those that bring rain have warmed it tepid. It hisses on the sausages it hits.

On the bus, skin sticks to the seats.

The windows are opened: breeze. The windows are closed: the capturing of our breath.

 

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