greylightdarkgrey sunday

get up too late living into the day at weekends, let time go by as if there was an unfathomable amount of it to draw on.
there is not. Those fathoms are counted


two voices to remember, ear hiss, Dreams gone by, into oblivion.
Reality stays.

The house is silent, peaceful.

For five minutes.
Then the son is up, cuddles with his father,
then he starts to work on his machines.
No breakfast yet,
These impressions are disorientated,

Things always get better before they get worse, a short flickering of concentration, and they are gone.
Sunday bells start ringing over the town, calling the worshippers to church.