the best way...

to write again is simply to begin writing again I think. So, here it goes.

Thomas sat staring out the window at the world outside his current abode. It was a grey day, with wind gusting occasionally and rain that speckled anything in its path. He noted, with a bemused grin, that everything, even the most vibrant colours looked dull and uninteresting. He watched as cars travelled along the narrow road that lead to the former base hospital that was now his regular home. There were puddles forming in the ruts of the road and anytime a vehicle moved through them, there was a a spray thrown up that was reminiscent of a ships wake on the water. Any pedistrian in the area was forced to dodge this deluge of muddy water, as the motorists paid little heed to anything other than their wristwatches. Thomas glanced, almost absent-mindedy at the cloak on the pale institutional green wall.
4:44
He found it interesting to note that it always seemed to be a time such as that whenever he looked. The last time he had turned away from the window it had been 2:22. He turned his gaze back to the great grey wastes that lay outside his perch. The traffic was intensifying now, nothing coming towards the building, but many vehicles moving in the opposite direction. In the distance, or what he perceived to be the distance, he could hear an air raid siren and instructions on where and how to evacuate. He could no longer tell if the sounds were coming from inside or outside the building, they had faded into the background of his consciousness and were fast on the way to becoming nothing more than white noise.
After all, they didn't really apply to him. No one had come to unlock the door to his room, and the bustle in the hallways outside had gone from rapid to frantic to closing in on silent. There would be no evacuation for either he or the others who had been admitted with him. Each would be left to their own devices in their solitary rooms as whatever the warnings predicted came to fruition.