a country of dreams and violence

The cat watches from the end of the corridor, sitting there errect with it' s tail wrapped about it's paws. And the door closes on the cat, still sitting there, alone. The red street door of the old house.
All washed and shaved, walk on down the alley. There are stacks of yellow bags in front of every house, holding old plastic packaging and tin cans. All waste packaging packed into yellow bags, to be collected later on in the day. To be recycled.
The streets are bare of people, a lone car drives slowly through the pedestrian zone, taking a short cut.
Pass through the town gate, a young woman on a bixycle comet the other way. She is wearing a knitted hat with a furry tassel on top.

pause to take a picture of the weather station. The ground is covered in pieces of bread, the ducks are feeding. The hotel on the other side of the river is lit up in the background.
Dolores is at the bus stop,
she bows instead of saying anything.
 Read the news on the mobile 'phone. The american Donald is deregulating the banks. And fourteen million people are due to lose access to medical care there, not here.

Madness,
a country of dreams and violence.

The
bus is early today, and in the bus the young girl with the Rastafarian locks and the other one in the back of the bas with her mirror and her makeup.
The smoker is in position in front of the station, puffing away at his cigarette, and the bald man and the indian women are serving in the cafe. Accidentally pay the man twenty cents too much, he returns it. One coin.

Put
the white plastic lid onto the coffee mug, and wait for ten minutes in the waiting room. The television is showing a documentary of the second world war, some struggle in the Italian alps.

: Board the train, write these notes. In Moobury a happy crowd of policemen board the train, they are chatting and joking on their way to work.

Weatherstation with two ducks