Another inside/ outside capture, this time poking the antenna out of the upstairs window. I've been outside a lot - if these notes make it seem I barely leave the house - and missed the other passes. The satellite is passing more to the east, so I'm on the other side of the house. It's a bit awkward, my arms get tired holding the antenna out beyond the building, swapping hands often and holding tight. The window sills are deep because of the old stone walls so I'm leaning quite a lot. Crows, seagulls and wood pigeons take turns at perching on the aerials across the road. There's a clear, cloudless blue sky and sun hits the rooftops. It makes the red sandstone glow a bright burnt orange. The storm has passed but until mid-afternoon the town was covered in a low cloud or haar that felt it could burn off any moment. When we were down at the beach, finding shell riddled hagstones and quartz veined pebbles, it was quiet. The sleepy feeling of early morning pushed through until the sun and the crowds came bursting out. It's the last weekend of the school holidays. I think I caught the sun on my face while cycling back along the coast. I'm quite happy to be inside now. We've had Joe to stay, who keenly remembered the satellite's sounds from working on a audio piece with me for an exhibition in 2021. It merged my daily recordings with extracts from personal weather diaries found in the Scottish Meteorological Society archives - made close to when I started listening to these orbiting bodies. Things (that) come back around. We talk about space junk. Archives. We have other conversations about silence, how it can be so loud, so felt.