Roses

There is a man in a suit outside Christ Church Cathedral picking the carpet roses to put in his lapel. He makes a bit of a scene of smelling them, then with a look to ensure that no one's watching, he picks one, and finding it unsatisfactory, lets it drop into the grass and picks another. Then, tastefully adorned, he walks away, content in the knowledge that not a single soul saw him do it.

Except for me, but I'm no one, really.

And, I suppose that if I was an omniscient narrator and this a book I'd follow him as he walked, telling you the exact quality of the sound of his footsteps across the pavement, give you snapshots of the streets he walked down, the people he passed. I'd ride the elevator up with him, tell you his name and who exactly he's trying to impress, but I have to go to work.

Though, if I have to add some commentary in with this I'd say that picking flowers from someone else's garden isn't exactly all that cool, even if it is a church garden.

Tomorrow I will take pictures and they will be awesome.

Good night.