The questions that follow events can often reveal the measurement of perception in people and say more about us than a thousand tearful, beer laden, drug hazed late nighters; or nature induced introspection and connection - on a global scale, let's say, do we ask the hundredth starving child of the hour if they had a good life?  If we can ease their pain or rite of passage?  Do icons appear on screens to tally?  Do petals curl to nod away light, in quiet contemplation?

Did the world stop?

There was a margarine tub full of freshly crushed potatoes in the fridge - for tomorrow's tea.  A bundle of dirty clothes in the corner, in anticipation of another hour's use.  Grass still waiting to be cut.  Curtains to be opened, bending the strings that held them.  And then there was the tea cup;  the icon of our existernce together; he and I.  From 3 to now; do you want a cup of tea?  Milky and spotted with a teabag then, more potent and strong these days, now that we are grown up and need only this for fortification.  It sat there, waiting for the hand to grasp it, for the dregs to be sipped away and the  sigh to follow as the lights went off, the keys made secure and the boards creeked.

And in this universe, that stillness still hunts us; of things just out of existence or use, who for a second, or less, see their worth has changed, or stopped.  And cannot quite taste what it means or grasp the gap - and that was where I next left off.  With a

"Did you sleep?"

a

"What's wrong with you?"

and a

"You look dreadful"

all summing up, the parts of others I clicked into.  If only for a night or two.

No one made me a cup of tea.  I guess no one thought of it; and I didn't feel able to help myself.

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