The sky was cloudy, leaves lay on the pavements.
Nor did she lack human contacts: she spoke to three shop assistants and a news vendor, and returned the 'goodnight' of a museum attendant.
Arriving home, she wrote a letter to someone in Canada, as it might be, or in New Zealand, listened to the news as she cooked her meal, and conversed for five minutes with the landlady.
The air was damp with the mist of late autumn.
A full day, and not unrewarding.
Night fell at usual seasonal hour.
She drew the curtains, switched on the electric fire, washes her hair and read until it was dry, then went to bed; where, for the hours of darkness, she lay pierced by thirty black spears and felt her limbs numb, her eyes burning, and dark rust carries along her blood.
by Mariell Amélie kl. 15:17