Antifantastic

Five in the morning, get up and put on clothes. The sitting room is big and silent but for the tickingof the clock on the wall. An old, electrically driven master clock from France is on the short piece of wall between the kitchen door and the door to the hallway. It ticks quietly to itself, just enough energy being used to turn the second hand, the minute hand and the hour hand, the brass plate with all the holes in it that turns once every twenty four hours. The clock used to be a time serve in some french firm, and now it is working in a German town. The clock must be around seventy years old now.

The battery on the computer does not have enough charge to let the machine run, get the power cord.

It is an ugly morning, it is the weekend again.

The family is sleeping, the cat looks up from the couch, lazy yawn, closes it's eyes again.

Everything is asleep.

But for the man at the laptop, and some early delivery vehicle out in the streets, rumbling on the cobblestones, making it's deliveries to the shops or the cafe's on the main streets.

It is hard to sleep now, the depressive feelings are getting stronger all the time, it is hard to sleep and hard to stay awake all at the same time. Strange.

They are spreading salt on the road. It must have frozen during the night, or else they are expecting snow. The orange beacon lights of a municipal truck pass by the window.

Let us see about making a cup of coffee.

or doing something else....

This is not great.

Antifantastic.