The Pale Yellow Streak Behind the Gasometer

Dear Delyara, A thin, sickly line of pale yellow light is finally breaking behind the skeletal iron frame of the old gasometer on the horizon. The automatic perimeter lights have just shut down with a heavy, metallic click, leaving the entire yard exposed in that raw, grey morning light where the mud and the tyre tracks look completely flat. The safety of the dark is gone. In less than an hour, the daytime operations manager will arrive with his loud voice and his transactional questions, looking right through this uniform without ever sensing the creative executive standing inside it. I am closing this ledger, sliding my laptop into my bag like a weapon, and preparing my mind to step out into the day with absolute control.