Hiss in the right temple, pain in the left one

Rainy grey day, the head is still solid with the cold, a whistling and hissing in the head and the throat is sore.

Otherwise everything is fine, get up and the back is so sore that it is hard to walk.

But let it be.

It is possible.

The cat is on the bed, the animal is bored. Purring like a machine.

It is late in the morning, and it is dark on account of the heavy rain clouds. There is a constant sound of drips on the window ledges, And the ringing of Sunday bells, at three minutes to eight.

The clothes are still clean from yesterday, And the son is at his computers, he has set up an old apple from the eighties.

This is the last day of the weekend

Hiss in the right temple, pain in the left one.

And look at the back of the chairs all with their Wiener geflecht, a regular pattern of painstaking work.

The piano with its many keys and the round stool before it.

And in the corner the black plastic television set with all it's attachments. An amusement centre, held as discreet as is possible behind the door,

It is a big room, our families good fortune.

And no others misfortune at all.

Walking is easier now that the back has warmed up, never stay too long in bed.