2.6.2014
blue dim monochromatic light fills the subdivided square of the window, lighter by the minute. Zelda the cat comes along by the bedside, wanting attention. Head scratch, ears scratch. Four forty four in the morning. Day break soon. Feed the cat, switch off the clock and go to the bathroom.
Shower, shave.
White shirt today.
Many pigeons and men in orange suits in the town. Both are concerned about the rubbish from Sundays open day in the town centre. The ones with their beaks, the others with brushes.
No good morning lady at the stop. The smokerwomen steams past, white haired, white jacket. A man with crutches wishes good morning, waits for the bus
'The bus, the unmentionable driver,: a forgotten short journey.
Anastasia at Yovmas, the laughing Anastasia, the day is saved, the coffee is great. It is not always a matter of what is served, but who serves it. and how it is served. It is a hard job feeding the dour and doleful faces at the cusp between the end of the night and the start of the day.
The train rushes westward, away from the rising sun. These that would have killed to be the first boarding, are recovering from their ardour in that half-filled train.
It will fill in Moostrwg, but there are seats for everybody. Moosburg comes moobwg goes
Tickets are shown, and that's it, the ticket attendant with the plaited hair in a hurry.
For now, sin é.
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