Time.

Here, cloudy days don't mean much to most - people would rather rush to go somewhere warm and dry, that is, run on their, old but classic, yellow wellingtons on their way to the bus station, trying not to splash on any water hollow, of course. Mud, mud, lots of mud... and swearing. Swearing because you didn't have enough time to search for your hooded coat, neither think of putting warm socks under your wellys, and your hair got messy, and your feet are cold and hurt because your father's gardening boots are too harsh for your small, soft feet and your clothes are soaking wet but you couldn't care less for such is your hurry that you stumble and eventually fall on the wet ground, -God could it get any worse- and as you try to get up you realise that -yes it could!- as you're just a dozen of meters far from your station, your bus comes and you nod to the driver but -goddammit!- he's fucking British and does not wait for you, and you come to think, the bus was stuffed too much, anyway. And what is this hurry for anyway? Tell you what, beats me. We don't know time. We don't realise time. So time doesn't know, and therefore cannot possibly remember us. We are so small, really, we are.