The past, which is dead done, dead, done, done and dusted.

bad night, on account of wine last night. Paranoia, thoughts on self destruction, on suicide. A black night. The feeling of being drawn to something, yet knowing that this is no good, no solution.
And there is no need for it.
And still a Siren calls, promising oblivion.

A combination of a small pill and a large long evening's drink.
Black night.

Awaken late to tinnitus, go to the bathroom, there is the cat asleep on a chair.
The orchid is alive yet,
No shower today, there is work to be done sanding down something. That is dusty work, a shower will be nice afterwards.

charge up the coffee maker, put on some toast. Let the gas hiss its song to the water bubbling in the dark of the lower part of the coffee pot.
clothes on, and out into the kitchen again in time for the arrival of the fresh brew in the top of the machine.
Gas off, butter the toast, get the computer and sit down in the silence of the living room, the living room table, the ironing board left over from the wife's work yesterday.

Check the mail, all the excitement in America in preparation of Novembers great event.
write these notes,
starting with the mention of  the
bad night, on account of wine last night.

The son is at his machine, a roaring old computer, and the cat has come in to settle on a chair nearby.
A grey saturday outside, one week ahead of the easter holidays, to be spent in Ireland at the brother's place in the south.
look to the future to drive away those demons demanding entry from the past. The past, which is dead done, dead, done, done and dusted.
punctuation – a full stop.