voices in the night, early morning sounds. Listen. The son and a friend, talking by way of their machines, playing the minecraft game. Between five and nine, in the morning, because of server time, and the availability of space, and restricted playing oppurtunities at other times. Sitting miles apart looking into screen with pixel people running around on them.
A strange sport, but times do change. There are three of them, going by the sound of the voices. Three in the room, two virtually there, one in reality
Coffee is made, the usual way. The cat is fed, it was walking about with tail erect and bristling, purring and calling .
Now it is eating, the tail resting on the ground.
Close the door to the son's room, the chatter is ennervating.
The eight fifty five bell rings outside, the small bell at the end of the church. Ring ring ring ring.
Outside, in the street the art gallery proprietor puts out his collection of flyers to attract the attention of passers by, of potential visitors.
Eight bells at eight, heavy tolling sounds from the big bells of St. Martins.
Today is a shopping Sunday. Shos are normally closed on Sundays, today is a special Sunday.
And the night was awful, no mask and the choking nightmares are back, and the hiss in the right ear a reminder of the fact that youth was a long time ago.
and the crowd , the virtual crowd, in the son's room has grown. Young voices chattering, using machines as toys that exceeded the wildest dreams fifty years ago.
The wife gets up, and the cat gets fed.
¡Again!
A strange sport, but times do change. There are three of them, going by the sound of the voices. Three in the room, two virtually there, one in reality
Coffee is made, the usual way. The cat is fed, it was walking about with tail erect and bristling, purring and calling .
Now it is eating, the tail resting on the ground.
Close the door to the son's room, the chatter is ennervating.
The eight fifty five bell rings outside, the small bell at the end of the church. Ring ring ring ring.
Outside, in the street the art gallery proprietor puts out his collection of flyers to attract the attention of passers by, of potential visitors.
Eight bells at eight, heavy tolling sounds from the big bells of St. Martins.
Today is a shopping Sunday. Shos are normally closed on Sundays, today is a special Sunday.
And the night was awful, no mask and the choking nightmares are back, and the hiss in the right ear a reminder of the fact that youth was a long time ago.
and the crowd , the virtual crowd, in the son's room has grown. Young voices chattering, using machines as toys that exceeded the wildest dreams fifty years ago.
The wife gets up, and the cat gets fed.
¡Again!
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