The drugs were beginning to wear off. Minute by minute the butterflies, those glorious, evanescent, friendly butterflies, were fading. She pressed the earpiece of her headphones to her ear. Pink Floyd were sounding like a noisy nightmare. As she gazed out across the valley, with its endless vista of trees, trees and more trees, she came down to earth with a bump. She should get back to work - artificial props might give her a brief respite, but she had a deadline to meet and a quota to make. Sighing, she pressed stop and slipped her headphones down round her neck. Onwards, if not upwards. She stopped and gathered up her equipment - her marking tools, her theodolite. Soon, in a straight line from where she stood, there woukld be a six-lane ribbon of tarmac. How did she feel about that. Suddenly she no longer cared. There were always the butterflies.

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petty.mike (joined almost 12 years ago)

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cynical wistful

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