where art collides philosoperontap

I can hear the traffic passing by below. A scooter accelerates. A lorry runs over something and its load clanks a little. The room is hot and I have the window open to let some fresh air in although it can hardly be described as fresh being, as I am, in central London. I’m on the fifth floor. I can imagine living here but not being able to see out beyond the top of the building opposite. I am left wondering about the traffic. Who is in the cars? Where have they come from and where are they going? The TV on the wall is switched off.  I can now hear the beeping of a lorry reversing and the shout of a couple of workmen. One of them coughs. Otherwise it is just more traffic. It sounds as if someone is putting up scaffolding. Occasionally there is a metallic clank. I presume there are people below, walking to work. It is 7.43 am. Someone must start that early although I know a lot of Londoners are late starters so that they can avoid the worst of the rush hour crush. I never leave my room. It is my world, my prison. I can hear the traffic passing by below but I can’t see it.