Planes

Due to my self-induced personal strife, I'm writing in exactly the same spot I used to until almost exactly two years ago. It's a very weird experience. Last time I was sitting here I was working on a practice-run novel, the one before last. It all feels like a long time ago, and uncomfortably familiar. I haven't often experienced this sense of regression. Anyway, as I sat staring out of the window last night (I'm on the eighth floor and very high up) I suddenly remembered my main distraction last time I was here. Planes. I used to waste good periods watching them flying along their set paths, left to right across the window, disappearing behind the skyscrapers in the City at one angle and emerging again at another. Last night, of course, there were none. It only struck me just then how strange the sky was without them. There they are again now, blinking and moving, on their set paths, distracting me once again.