up and out, out of bed and, down with the mask, into the bathroom.
Headache blooming, tinnitus as always, some work for the wicked, find this laptop, blog away in night clothes.
Get cold coffee, left from yesterday, eat a banana, the family asleep, make as little noise as possible. Sunday at seven twentyseven is early, an early day for many, listen to the rain drip on the wood of the window frame, hear the sound of tyres on the cobbles, and the ticking of clocks.
Silence reflected in the golden colour of the wood around the room, the wood that needs polishing again sometime, and the wilted tulips.
A wet spring weekend, which, if followed by a sunny spell, will add the final touches to the green of the vegetation and the trees covering the park on the hill at the end of the continuation of the church lane. Behind the small museums and the large police station.
This is the live account from a man in his late fifties sitting at a table in night clothes, typing at a small apple computer, the other end of the table covered with the unfinished debris of the sons homework for the coming week.
The real image seen in the mirror in the bathroom is a casual zausel compared to the unreal idea of self, there is no similarity, a greyed, almost white haired unkempt monstrosity of the real image. The reminder of the disparity in the seen from the outside and the view from the inside, no comparing, no despairing, no just supposing.
The brillie clock sends its signal into limbo every thirty seconds, alternating the polarity audibly with a click clack then to be followed by a clack click.
The sons alarm, his mobile phone, a klaxon sound demanding all hands on deck
It is eight, he is to be heard climbing down from the steps from his bunk bed.
Eight on a Sunday morning.
The head is clear and the hissy tussy in the right side of the head, heard by the right ear is louder again
Headache blooming, tinnitus as always, some work for the wicked, find this laptop, blog away in night clothes.
Get cold coffee, left from yesterday, eat a banana, the family asleep, make as little noise as possible. Sunday at seven twentyseven is early, an early day for many, listen to the rain drip on the wood of the window frame, hear the sound of tyres on the cobbles, and the ticking of clocks.
Silence reflected in the golden colour of the wood around the room, the wood that needs polishing again sometime, and the wilted tulips.
A wet spring weekend, which, if followed by a sunny spell, will add the final touches to the green of the vegetation and the trees covering the park on the hill at the end of the continuation of the church lane. Behind the small museums and the large police station.
This is the live account from a man in his late fifties sitting at a table in night clothes, typing at a small apple computer, the other end of the table covered with the unfinished debris of the sons homework for the coming week.
The real image seen in the mirror in the bathroom is a casual zausel compared to the unreal idea of self, there is no similarity, a greyed, almost white haired unkempt monstrosity of the real image. The reminder of the disparity in the seen from the outside and the view from the inside, no comparing, no despairing, no just supposing.
The brillie clock sends its signal into limbo every thirty seconds, alternating the polarity audibly with a click clack then to be followed by a clack click.
The sons alarm, his mobile phone, a klaxon sound demanding all hands on deck
It is eight, he is to be heard climbing down from the steps from his bunk bed.
Eight on a Sunday morning.
The head is clear and the hissy tussy in the right side of the head, heard by the right ear is louder again
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