16 February 2016
it cannot be true, the cat is making demanding noises, it is only four in the morning, this is depressing. Let the spoilt feline out, may it have fun outside, in the dark of the yard.
at four fifty nine, get up and watch the telephone, wait for it to start it's seaside song. When it does go into the shower, the bathroom, say good morning to the orchid, the orchid still alive in the corner by the window get dressed, find a hair brush after a long search, groom the still-damp hair.
See that the hall clock has broken down, it will need looking at some other time, not at this revolting half past five in the morning. Leave the house, it is damp outside. Down the alley, past all the shops, a woman comes around the corner at the perfume shop, keeping her head down to avoid eye contact.
The discount bakery has a mountain of cardboard boxes before its window front, all the empty containers of frozen bakery products from the past weeks. Dolores at the bus stop, impassive. The bog cotton man is there too, fluffy white hair over the nape of his neck. There is a lot of traffic, hundreds of five - seater cars bringing their owner's to work. some are big, and others are not so large-Automobiles are getting steadily larger anyway, people are becoming more and more ostentatious.
The bus, it's driver, short journey to the railway station, good morning to the pig tailed smoker, and face up to a dour Big Blondy, she makes everybody feel that she is doing them a great favour by serving them at all. The television is showing advertisements for non-stick frying pans, and it's Platform time again,the train comes in.
There is a man with a wig and thick glasses clutching a case to his chest, wearing a navy blue raincoat, who forces his way aboard the train without letting the people disembark first. An egocentric, an egocentric with a cheap brown wig to hide some kind of baldness.
And now, with the train having left Moos Burg behind, it is time to end this small account, this daily note taking. For Today, anyway.
it cannot be true, the cat is making demanding noises, it is only four in the morning, this is depressing. Let the spoilt feline out, may it have fun outside, in the dark of the yard.
at four fifty nine, get up and watch the telephone, wait for it to start it's seaside song. When it does go into the shower, the bathroom, say good morning to the orchid, the orchid still alive in the corner by the window get dressed, find a hair brush after a long search, groom the still-damp hair.
See that the hall clock has broken down, it will need looking at some other time, not at this revolting half past five in the morning. Leave the house, it is damp outside. Down the alley, past all the shops, a woman comes around the corner at the perfume shop, keeping her head down to avoid eye contact.
The discount bakery has a mountain of cardboard boxes before its window front, all the empty containers of frozen bakery products from the past weeks. Dolores at the bus stop, impassive. The bog cotton man is there too, fluffy white hair over the nape of his neck. There is a lot of traffic, hundreds of five - seater cars bringing their owner's to work. some are big, and others are not so large-Automobiles are getting steadily larger anyway, people are becoming more and more ostentatious.
The bus, it's driver, short journey to the railway station, good morning to the pig tailed smoker, and face up to a dour Big Blondy, she makes everybody feel that she is doing them a great favour by serving them at all. The television is showing advertisements for non-stick frying pans, and it's Platform time again,the train comes in.
There is a man with a wig and thick glasses clutching a case to his chest, wearing a navy blue raincoat, who forces his way aboard the train without letting the people disembark first. An egocentric, an egocentric with a cheap brown wig to hide some kind of baldness.
And now, with the train having left Moos Burg behind, it is time to end this small account, this daily note taking. For Today, anyway.
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