See the light coming in from the window, stop the clock counting down. It is four forty seven, on a holiday day.
Ascension.
Another christian holiday, a holiday for all here, christian or not. Roman Caholic or Protestant or Muslim or Buddhist. They all have a day off, unless they are working in power plants, bakeries, hotels, cafés, guest houses or petrol stations.
There are plenty of exceptions.
Hear birdsong outside. Twitters and calls.
Listen to the air hiss out of the breathing mask, then turn off the little compressor. Three hours operation, nineteen events per hour.
Seems nonsensical, the display on that little machine. What ¿„events“?
Finally at five thirty, it is bright, to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. Coffee is addictive, but I would be happy to drink tea in Ireland.
The sound of the coffee grinder awakens the son, he is up in his high bed, asleep.
Good Morning.
Grinn.
The facade of the yellow painted house opposite reflects yellow light into the room. It is a room from another time, the anachronism is the television in the corner.
A pigeon coos outside, the clock ticks.
A calm day, another day.
Son laughs next door. His computer is amusing him.
School Holiday too.
There is a car in front of the door, parked in the middle of the street belonging to a tattoo artist from
dingolfing. Going by the numberplate anyway.
Ascension.
Another christian holiday, a holiday for all here, christian or not. Roman Caholic or Protestant or Muslim or Buddhist. They all have a day off, unless they are working in power plants, bakeries, hotels, cafés, guest houses or petrol stations.
There are plenty of exceptions.
Hear birdsong outside. Twitters and calls.
Listen to the air hiss out of the breathing mask, then turn off the little compressor. Three hours operation, nineteen events per hour.
Seems nonsensical, the display on that little machine. What ¿„events“?
Finally at five thirty, it is bright, to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. Coffee is addictive, but I would be happy to drink tea in Ireland.
The sound of the coffee grinder awakens the son, he is up in his high bed, asleep.
Good Morning.
Grinn.
The facade of the yellow painted house opposite reflects yellow light into the room. It is a room from another time, the anachronism is the television in the corner.
A pigeon coos outside, the clock ticks.
A calm day, another day.
Son laughs next door. His computer is amusing him.
School Holiday too.
There is a car in front of the door, parked in the middle of the street belonging to a tattoo artist from
dingolfing. Going by the numberplate anyway.
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