5 Hay 2014
Disturbed sleep, though there is nothing there to disturb . At three in the morning there is no new news of the lost airliner. Now people say that there are terrorists. Secret terrorists?
As sleep is sound the radio controlled clock fulfills function, first unrecognised, then irritating. The sound of doom as a steady beep, maddening torture like a water drip to the forehead of a renitent interviewee.
The morning is light, a pale sky unsaturated blue. Street lamps out, on comerturn for the main street. At the bus-stop a look back at the presunrise dawn.
The days are warmer, and the small girl in her coat with the cap with the ears is not wearing this outfit this morning, her hair is long and black. She has the name gait that so many have, now that the dictates of fashion release them from the onus of wearing heels.. The bus rolls away from the rising sun, and the hurried breakfast with coffee togo waits. The pretty fair haired Team Leiter awaits me, to quiet, asks again. She is such a strict girl.
The train rolls in against a background column of steam from the reactor on on the horizon, with the light of the rising sun behind Dramatis satis, no, not really.
Thoughts of a polonial invitation to meet her view of the world, open for all to see.Maybe learn the language. Babbelomia?
Maybe the language is to be learnt and understood.
Portulguese
MossCastle boarders, space is gone.
no writing
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