Thursday, and a night of deep sleep, wake to the seaside melody. All the lights are on in the hallway, the son must hate been up during the night. He always forgets to turn off the lights. Let the cat in, she is out in the stairwell. The cut buzzes about, delighted to be inside, rubbing it' s head against legs, beds and chairs. Shower, wash and shave.
The orchid is still alive.
Put together the days clothing, find the glasses in their usual place, and leave for the street.
Wet snow is falling outside, the street is wet. Put up the hood, eyes on the cobbles.
Continue
.
The bus shelter is crowded, five people. It is the snow, it is uncomfortable and wet. It is not cold enough here for the snow to remain on the ground as snow, so it melts and makes the ground wet. Dolores sits where she always sits. A grief stricken face. she has a hard life behind her, and a way to go yet.
The bus driver, walrus-lite, corpulent. Walrus-like because of his bald head and his moustache.
A woman runs past outside the bus, dressed up to the nines in her sporting clothing – going for a morning run.
Rush from the bus into the station building, It is wet. Crunching underfoot, there is broken glass on the ground outside the station, one at the drinkers dropped his bottle in the night. Probably.
B. Blandy serves coffee, a small Espresso for the neighbour, and a large mug for Wildo.
Hedgehog and Moustachio! talking at their table. Ignore the television set today, it is showing the same advertising stuff as every day.
The platform is dark, that is on account of the overcast sky. Each light on it´s tall steel support is surrounded by a halo of white flashes on their way to annihilation the ground. It is pretty, in its way. It is to be admired from the shelters on the platform.
the train comes in.
And before reaching Freising, the landscape outside has turned white, a white winters journey turning the way to work in the morning into a fairytale Christmas's idyll, at the end of February.
The snow in the fields is blue in the early light from the overcast sky, and the distant headlamps on the cars out on the main road are yellow in comparison.
The orchid is still alive.
Put together the days clothing, find the glasses in their usual place, and leave for the street.
Wet snow is falling outside, the street is wet. Put up the hood, eyes on the cobbles.
Continue
.
The bus shelter is crowded, five people. It is the snow, it is uncomfortable and wet. It is not cold enough here for the snow to remain on the ground as snow, so it melts and makes the ground wet. Dolores sits where she always sits. A grief stricken face. she has a hard life behind her, and a way to go yet.
The bus driver, walrus-lite, corpulent. Walrus-like because of his bald head and his moustache.
A woman runs past outside the bus, dressed up to the nines in her sporting clothing – going for a morning run.
Rush from the bus into the station building, It is wet. Crunching underfoot, there is broken glass on the ground outside the station, one at the drinkers dropped his bottle in the night. Probably.
B. Blandy serves coffee, a small Espresso for the neighbour, and a large mug for Wildo.
Hedgehog and Moustachio! talking at their table. Ignore the television set today, it is showing the same advertising stuff as every day.
The platform is dark, that is on account of the overcast sky. Each light on it´s tall steel support is surrounded by a halo of white flashes on their way to annihilation the ground. It is pretty, in its way. It is to be admired from the shelters on the platform.
the train comes in.
And before reaching Freising, the landscape outside has turned white, a white winters journey turning the way to work in the morning into a fairytale Christmas's idyll, at the end of February.
The snow in the fields is blue in the early light from the overcast sky, and the distant headlamps on the cars out on the main road are yellow in comparison.
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