A Morning sky at six. Sunday morning. Relax a while, sleep was deep. Take down the mask, the notice on the turbine says that the deep sleep lasted six hours and twenty minutes.
Go to the bathroom, see the face all lined and scored by the pressure of the straps that held the mask in place.
Oh well, no beau no more.
In the living room, the same everyday untidiness. Time will not change it, there is nothing to improve.
Voices in the street outside. Two young men, arms wrapped around each other stagger down the alleyway. They are both obviously tired, slurred slow speech. Their party is just over, the well-built pair are on their way home. Supposedly.
Today is the twelfth of july,
A day for those who wish to cause trouble.
Let us make a morning coffee.
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