His texting the weather cues a side-eyed shopfront collapse. Prows emerge from navvied-grey, ground-erasing chiminea to pop the chance to join a pooling inches from my flat. Two weaving and sweating clouds monkeying the works; cocks of looks who mind tithed memes of our town/storm through perplex. Truthy mooning over yanked screw looses shunts earthed outrage to and from our covers. Determined, bottle-christened, loved chat via metering bars is our hale. Soared thumbs search to refresh with sheet anchors staying the swale. For Mike.