awake, snorting the air from that compressor, agape.
It is seven in the morning, the decision to remain ill fell yesterday.
The head feels like a sandbag balanced on a pole, every movement hurts.
whistling sounds in the ear to my right hand, a steady his, white-ish noise, like an untuned radio.
static.
Sons alarm sounds, from his little apple telephone
Get up, make coffee, grinder,empty out the old grounds, son feeds the cat, spill ground coffee on the floor.
Back of the throat sore, temples ache, psychic pressure aids the virus's. or the bacterias´work.
A complete lack of personal and interpersonal coordination in kitchen matters here.
At the end of it , the coffee is made and the cat fed.
The wife is still in bed, sorting her head.
son up wife awake. Interesting to see what they do on a workday morning, an observer. Watch the collection of the items for school, discussion over latin or no latin. They both start shouting.
Extra classes, son wants to avoid stress. Secure his exit strategy with a paternal humm, Then all is quiet again, all mollified.
The cat is full of frisks, then it crawls under a small table, a card-players table, and gets sick. "It ate too fast this morning" is the opinion.
And at five to eight the son is under way. A short walk to the school, luxury
And all this hanging about in night clothing must stop: now!
And now sinusititis-like pains.
And the wife has gone back to bed, comfort and luxury.
The son is gone now, and the sun remains behind clouds,
the good doctor has his day off, says the charming voice on the telephone.
It is seven in the morning, the decision to remain ill fell yesterday.
The head feels like a sandbag balanced on a pole, every movement hurts.
whistling sounds in the ear to my right hand, a steady his, white-ish noise, like an untuned radio.
static.
Sons alarm sounds, from his little apple telephone
Get up, make coffee, grinder,empty out the old grounds, son feeds the cat, spill ground coffee on the floor.
Back of the throat sore, temples ache, psychic pressure aids the virus's. or the bacterias´work.
A complete lack of personal and interpersonal coordination in kitchen matters here.
At the end of it , the coffee is made and the cat fed.
The wife is still in bed, sorting her head.
son up wife awake. Interesting to see what they do on a workday morning, an observer. Watch the collection of the items for school, discussion over latin or no latin. They both start shouting.
Extra classes, son wants to avoid stress. Secure his exit strategy with a paternal humm, Then all is quiet again, all mollified.
The cat is full of frisks, then it crawls under a small table, a card-players table, and gets sick. "It ate too fast this morning" is the opinion.
And at five to eight the son is under way. A short walk to the school, luxury
And all this hanging about in night clothing must stop: now!
And now sinusititis-like pains.
And the wife has gone back to bed, comfort and luxury.
The son is gone now, and the sun remains behind clouds,
the good doctor has his day off, says the charming voice on the telephone.
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