I have a slither of view in the gap between the building I'm in and the building that I face.
If I crook my neck around to the left, I can see the West Gate Bridge, and if I lean forward and look left I can see the Power Station. With candy stripes on its tip. I can see the South Melbourne flats if I lean back on my chair dangerously and look left, with their 90s peach paint job.

I've been watching the clouds roll in in waves all morning. Sometimes I try and imagine the clouds like they appear in satellite images.

Looking in front of me, it’s so dark outside; I can see my reflection in the window like a mirror. My face sits insipid and translucent beyond the strands of fluffy grass I picked on site and chucked in a tumbler. The grass is at a height where it looks like its tickling my nose in the reflection. If I slouch it looks like it graces my head, an elegant fascinator.

Square fluorescent lights fly above me in rows, marching off in perfect perspective.

My face in amongst the beige, windowless, pre-cast concrete panels the building next door.