Atlas let his hands go from the sides of the world. Nothing happened.
Atlas put his hands down in front of him on the floor of the universe or the ceiling of stars, I don't know which, and then he stretched out his left leg so that he was kneeling on all fours, the Kosmos balanced on his back. Laika was running in and out of his spread fingers. She had never seen her master move.
Atlas crawled forward and then suddenly fell flat on his face with hands over his ears and the dog clinging on to his thumb. Atlas waited, rigid with doom. The dog waited, her nose in her paws.
Nothing happened.
Write it more substantially — NOTHING.
Atlas raised his head, turned over, stood up, stepped back. The dog's nose lifted. Atlas looked back at his burden. There was no burden. There was only the diamond-blue earth gardened in a wilderness of space.
I'm moving to a new flat tomorrow. It's a small studio, but it's all my own and I like the space. Plus there's a rather large patio/garden type area out back.
It's a bit further from my office than my current place, so I'll no longer be walking to work. The tube is absurdly expensive, not necessarily reliable and probably regular use of it is, to your lungs, the equivalent of a pack-a-day cigarette addiction. So I will not be taking the tube. Instead, I bought a (second hand) Brompton. It is a beautiful machine. I absolutely adore it.
My walking pace around London (I walk fast) seemed perfectly sufficient to me. But now that I'm back on a bike, walking seems so terribly slow. It's lovely to be cycling again and feeling the pleasant stretch of forgotten muscles.
