One Stomach Ruminations.

at a quarter to eight, bright blue light from the unclouded sky falling in through the window glass, sit up, turn of the small compressor,  that acute solution to a chronic problem. See the world, as a big flat in an old town, in an old town house, sixteenth century. The concept of democracy was a strange idea from ancient greece then. It is not the same now as it was then, the renaissance style arches ripped out and replaced by beams to make large boxy rooms for the baroque fancy, leaving the structure compromised for all of it's remaining time.
Enough ruminating, not an ox,not a bull, a sheep, a goat, a camel or a llama. get up, Stand up, go to the toilet,
Return, make the coffee in the usual way, and two slices of bread and cheese for breakfast.
And get this neat great grey machine to do the things it was meant for, to place the contents of my selfish mind in a place for everyone to see.
"an aversion towards getting up and listening to the days complaints, the things that should have been done and are subject of other people's claims never to have agreed to do. Take nothing for granted, and that on which praise and agreement was attained yesterday is a different matter today" And that a pithy recipe for destruction.
And so this entry deserves treatment as one of those deleted untitled entries, those that dealt with the untruths told to the one in the mirror, and that are then thrown out for the admiration of humanity, . Humanity is not that dumb, and breaks its sides in laughter, deriding the image maker, and ultimately itself. Dumb, after all. A recursive thing that is hard to explain, this is wildo's pale attempt, failéd.

Gack.

It is just a matter of waiting untill the numbers say three, the years are three, and of then working on.
untill they are four.

No.

Stop, it is nine fiftysix and the church bells are calling. Calling using a steady clanging, a ding dong, steady mechanical, untill it stops, with a final clang after a short break in the rythm.

And at ten, the sombre sound of Saint Martin´s bells, ten times tolling, it is time to

Stop