It is midday. I am still lying in bed. I twist the curtain and black sheet so the lying sky is all that I see for several hours. Within this frame I hear an old timey plane. The propeller; I cannot see it. And so now the loading and unloading of semi-interested work thunders across Lynhurst from the industrial park. It creates a force field over my house, like a heavy depression in the clouds, or a net cast.