wkend day, ´s at ur day?

wake, eight.
shows the clock.
breathing easy, relaxed?
Mask?
its on your face, stupid!
gotten used to it.
Good.

Turn the pump off.
Nine hours, four „events“ per hour.

Strange dreams, again.
Broken.
todaloo.

Dreams of hippy busses,
lost lavatories in hotels,
an inherent vice,
a frolic of his own,
runs into dreams that end sleep
in the middle of the night
awaken.
Short notes on a sat ur de
nonsense

Make coffee
hug son,
bring modom a cuppa
Things are fine

Good