four thirty one morning notes

Cat Zelda sat on the bed and looked into the dark, supposedly. Nobody knows! Sounding alarm sounded in a dream modification like a firebell, a siren. Cat croaked like a frog, searched for attention. The change of tense today was imminent, and the light was turned on. Fed that cat, washed the old face, no changes in the night, no strangers awaited in the day.The teeth were cleaned, the shaver was applied. Briefly. Five Thirty five, The streets were wet. Time was passing so slowly, the slimy wet streets and-yes the man with the crutches and the good morning lady were there. One of the three walkers from last year has a new girlfriend this year. His volubility and her silence walk past. There was no change for the bus driver today, he had to change a note.

        The mosaic maker in the cafe was not alert today, as if something was wrong. The people talked about the weather and the railway services,  about work. There was no sense of immediacy about anything. No urgency "boarding trains. The small diesel train from Rosenheim was in already.:, disgorging its passengers to the platform. It was a rough journey, noisy, like every day.

        Those dark blue squares on their light blue ground, the velveteen seats of the railway company, promising comfort they could not deliver, were sparsely occupied. The well dressed, sleekly combed long haired man in the seat opposite ranted on in a continuous monotone about the injustices of work, he got progressively louder and louder. The extra moosburg passengers did not fill the train either.

and before we reached our destination neighbor blew her nose noisily, she got no word in at all.

        He shut up for thirty seconds.