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Monday, 5 December 2011

Description Of Bowen's Street...

All was calm, perfectly still and indefinably peaceful. The few cars that slipped down the street glided soundlessly, motionlessly almost as if the hustle and bustle of the city had not yet begun. Or not wanted to. A church bell was ringing in the distance, which marked the beginning of the day. Those tiny buds of glistening moisture started to melt. Birds softened their hushed songs and began to chatter and flit around. The coldness in the air grew less prevalent. It was replaced by a subtle warmth as the chill in the shadows retreated into nothingness. Clinks of glasses and mutterings of the early-risers rose into the air like a disorganised symphony, climbing into the sky above through its own unique tenors and tremolos, led by the high-pitched clatter of trays and cups in the cafés and the low, finespun baritones of grand old Frenchmen talking of older times. Men and women were now leaving to work, springing out of their apartments sometimes at the same time. Neighbour by neighbour, they left their homes. Some walked, some climbed into their little cars parked by the roadside, some brought themselves aloft modest bikes and others proceeded to the cafés to begin the working day. The church bell had stopped ringing and Bowen was still gazing with a contented tiredness out of his apartment window, admiring the day, before he himself had to partake in it.

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